Two Months Later...

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I sat with Kane and Cali at a small table near the fire at Murphy’s, their voices tangled in a lively, heated debate. I wasn’t really listening—more caught up in the spectacle. They’d barely walked in before finding something to clash over, their stubbornness and sharp wit on full display. I leaned back, letting the scene play out, a chaotic little mosaic of grit and personality.

The fire’s warmth seeped into my cold, undead skin, a rare comfort in a world that rarely offered any. Angelica, our local bard, stood near the corner, her voice flowing through the room like a balm. Her song wrapped around me like a shield, smoothing the jagged edges of the chaos I carried. For a moment, her melodies made the world feel a little less fractured.

Murphy never forgave me for what I did to his bar. I couldn’t blame him. A place like that, the kind of joint that held memories in its walls, wasn’t just a building. It was a sanctuary, a second home for the lost, the lonely, and the in-betweeners. Still, the money from the case softened the blow. He rebuilt it better than before—new wood paneling, polished brass fixtures, and a shine that made the place look almost respectable.

I might have taken the edge off his grudge with a few extra stacks of cash I’d conveniently stumbled across on my way out of Catigan’s. Call it guilt money. Call it hush money. Hell, call it payment for services rendered. Didn’t matter much to me, and Murphy didn’t ask too many questions.

The bulk of the fortune I liberated from Cat’s palace found its way to Al’s and Bart’s families. It wouldn’t bring them back, wouldn’t patch the gaping holes left behind. But in a world full of things I couldn’t fix, it was something.

The cops and the Council worked together to “smooth things over,” their way of saying they buried it so deep no one would ever dig it up. They called it a gang attack, slapped some tape on the wreckage, and trotted the Governor out for a press conference. Governor Winthrop blustered about fighting crime, all while looking like a man who hadn’t slept since the Great War. It was theater. All of it.

Cat was gone, dead in the way you don’t come back from—I’d made sure of that. But the questions he left behind? They were alive, kicking, and screaming for answers. The Council was next on my list, but taking them on without a plan was a one-way ticket to the morgue—and not for spare parts. For now, I needed to regroup. To think.

The night after the fight, Cali had said something that stuck with me. “You’re a hero,” she’d murmured, her tone light but serious. Sarah used to say the same thing when I came home after a long job. A hero? Not likely. Heroes died young and left shiny, idealistic corpses. Me? I was something else entirely. But maybe, just maybe, being a hero wasn’t the worst thing to aim for.

Ever since that rooftop feast, something in me had shifted. I was stronger, faster, sharper. Even my skin carried a faint hint of color now—not quite human, but closer than before.

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You still look like a dumpster fire, Frank muttered, his tone as cutting as ever. But beneath the jab, there was a comfort only he could deliver.

“Appreciate it, Frank,” I said.

I sighed, wished Kane and Cali a goodnight—though it barely registered over their bickering—and headed upstairs, leaving them to hash it out without me.

The antique mirror above the bar threw my reflection back at me. Fedora? Check. Frank? Always. A face etched with too many stories, most of them the kind that didn’t get happy endings? That, too.

The room above the bar wasn’t fancy, but it was mine. Warm wood floors creaked under my boots, and the air carried the faint scent of whiskey and fresh varnish from the renovations. The window overlooked the alley behind the building, narrow and dimly lit, but still a portal to the city that never truly rested.

Across the hall from my room was another door. One Murphy had agreed to let me take off his hands, thanks to the payment I’d gotten from Aylin. True to her word, she came through—plus a little extra.

I’d found it the next morning, parked just outside the bar, looking too new, too pristine to belong in this part of town. The cherry-red Mustang, with its white racing stripes and leather bucket seats, practically shimmered under the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. Tucked under the windshield wiper was a note, scrawled in her sharp, unmistakable handwriting, and an envelope stuffed with cash sat on the front seat.

I hadn’t read the note yet. Couldn’t bring myself to, not with the way my gut churned just looking at her script. The car? It gleamed like a devil’s bargain, all temptation and trouble rolled into one. But the envelope didn’t lie, and Murphy didn’t take deals on trust alone.

I had half a mind to torch it where it stood, just to make a point. But I wasn’t that stupid. Or proud.

I was burning through what little I’d set aside for myself from the job, and fast. But money—money was like horse manure. Worthless unless you spread it around encouraging things to grow.

The young handyman was just finishing as I stepped into the hall. He’d installed a frosted glass window in the center of the door to my new office, the fresh paint on the lettering still drying.

“Great job,” I said, meaning it, and gave him a generous tip.

The kid smiled shyly, packed his tools, and left without a word.

I stood in the doorway, staring at the new addition. Across the frosted glass, bold black letters stood out against the dim light:

Jack Callaghan

Demon Hunter, Private Eye

It wasn’t just a name on a door; it was a statement, a promise, and a warning all rolled into one. Each letter carried the ghosts of the fights I’d won and the ones I’d lost. This wasn’t just my name anymore. It was a calling card for the things that bled—and the things that didn’t.

It was for the city. For the people who didn’t know where else to turn. And for the monsters who thought they were untouchable.

That’s where I came in.

Because someone had to.

I stepped inside, the chair behind the desk creaking as I sank into it. Outside, the city whispered its secrets—cops on their beats, drunks stumbling home, shadows sliding through alleys unnoticed. The world turned, oblivious to the things lurking just out of sight.

But I wasn’t oblivious.

Frank stirred, his voice brushing against my thoughts. Looks good.

“Damn right it does,” I muttered, lighting a cigarette.

The sign on the door wasn’t just for me.

When you spend your life hunting things in the dark, you have to remember to look for the light. Without it, you might wind up lost to the black forever.

Sometimes, the only way to stay grounded is to remember what it means to truly live, especially in a world that’s already mostly dead.