He stepped out of the house , he didn't want to listen to anymore of their conversation.

It wasn't the first time he felt this disconnected, but hearing it all laid out between Samantha and Mary made it feel final.When Mary stepped outside, closing the door softly behind her, she didn't need to ask if he had heard everything. She could see it in his face—the set of his jaw, the hard look in his eyes. "Guess you heard all of that," she said quietly, stepping around to stand beside him.

John nodded, arms crossed. "Yup. The whole thing."

Mary shifted awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed. "If it's any help... I'm sorry my sister's such a bitch. Look, John, you're a good guy. I wish things had worked out, but..." She trailed off, realizing she didn't have the right words. It wasn't like she could fix this for him, and if anyone knew the marriage was beyond saving, it was John.

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "You don't have to explain it to me, Mary. I've been well aware for a long time. Saw it coming before it even happened. I just didn't want to believe it. And yeah, I've been dragging my feet on dealing with it too. Too angry, I guess."

There was a pause, and Mary asked hesitantly, "So what's the next step, John? Are you going to see a lawyer?"

John shrugged, his shoulders tense. "Probably. But not just yet. I want to talk about how we're going to handle things first. Not that it really matters. I don't care much about the house, don't care much about anything at this point. We'll split whatever money and whatever I've got to pay, and I'll be on my way."

Mary glanced away, gazing out at the street, her voice soft. "So that's it? File the paperwork, pay her whatever, and be done? No talking it over? Nothing else?"

John sighed, stepping off the porch, his voice bitter. "Don't see much point in dragging it out. Your sister doesn't seem to care too much, neither do I."

He knew that last part wasn't true. He cared—far more than he wanted to admit. The betrayal still stung deep, and as much as he hated to admit it, there had been a time when he thought they could work through it. But now? Now, it all felt pointless. If this was how things were going to end, then so be it. He'd get a lawyer, call in a favor, and get someone to draw up the papers exactly as he wanted. Samantha could have half of everything. It didn't matter to him anymore. He had more than enough to live off of, and he could always make more if he needed to.

Mary watched him for a moment, the silence between them thick. Finally, she said, "You know, John, it's okay to still be upset. You don't have to pretend like this doesn't bother you."

He gave her a sideways glance but didn't respond. Instead, he just kept walking, his mind already thinking ahead to the inevitable end of it all. There was no fixing this. All that was left was to make it official.

John paused at the driver's side door, glancing back over his shoulder. "Have a good one, Mary. And hey, for what it's worth, you weren't that bad of an in-law." He managed a dry laugh, and Mary gave a small chuckle in return before heading back inside.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he should stay in touch with her. Mary was the only part of Samantha's family he had ever really gotten along with, and despite the mess, she had always been straightforward. But the thought of keeping any connection felt like dragging out the pain. It was like trying to stay connected to a wound you were supposed to let heal.

He told himself he'd talk to Samantha in the morning. They'd settle things, figure out the logistics. No more dragging it out, no more putting it off. But even as he tried to convince himself, he knew that wasn't what he really wanted. He wanted it all to be over.

But that conversation could wait. Right now, what he needed was a drink—a strong one, something that could drown out the mess of thoughts swirling in his head. He flicked the cigarette to life and exhaled slowly, rolling down the window as he slid into the driver's seat. Without much thought, he went through the motions, his mind on autopilot as he headed across town.

There was only one place he could think of that would hit the spot tonight: Rocko's, a hole-in-the-wall bar on the edge of town. The kind of place where no one asked questions, and you could disappear for a few hours. Exactly what he needed.

Some 20 minutes later.........

John pushed through the door of the bar, the noise of the crowd and clinking glasses greeting him like an old friend. He kept his head low, brushing past the regulars and the patrons who barely glanced in his direction. He was here for one thing—to drink, smoke, and sort through the mess he'd been grappling with for days. The dim lighting suited him just fine, and he found a quiet corner to settle in, away from prying eyes.

At the bar, he ordered a bottle of cheap whiskey and a glass, then made his way to his spot. He poured himself a drink, lit up a cigarette, and let the smoke mix with the alcohol's warmth as he leaned back, content in his silence. For a while, no one bothered him. Just how he liked it.

As he nursed his drink, the familiar faces of the bar's regulars flickered in and out of focus, until he noticed something—or someone—different. A woman stood by the bar, far too pretty for a place like this. Curvaceous in a way that seemed exaggerated, with dark hair framing a face that was flawless—too flawless. John ignored her at first, figuring she was either lost or looking for someone who wasn't him. He downed another shot, letting the burn settle in his gut.

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Then she started moving toward him.

She sauntered over, all smiles and confidence, sliding into the booth across from him without a hint of hesitation.

She was even more striking up close. A vision in black, her dress clung to her curves like a second skin, revealing subtle contours beneath, including a plunging neckline that hinted at enticing cleavage. Her hair, a cascade of soft waves, framed her face in a halo of darkness, while her deep, mysterious eyes held a promise of mischief. A playful smile danced on her lips, inviting him into her world of flirtation. Her demeanor was a heady mix of confidence and allure—a magnetic force that pulled him in without a fight. Her skin was smooth and radiant, her features delicate yet striking. As she leaned forward, John couldn't help but notice how her assets pushed against her low-cut top. He raised an eyebrow, already suspicious.

"Hey there, handsome," she purred, her voice honey-sweet, her eyes locked onto his.

John took another drag of his cigarette, eyeing her over the rim of his glass. "You lost?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

She giggled, leaning in closer, the scent of her perfume intoxicating. "Not lost. Just looking for some company. Mind if I join you?"

He chuckled dryly, more to himself than to her, taking a moment to study her. It felt off—too rehearsed, too perfect. He'd been around long enough to know when someone was running a game on him. Maybe she was a distraction. Maybe someone had sent her to mess with him, or worse.

He didn't respond, just took another long drag of his cigarette and glanced around the bar, his senses sharpening. Still, no one seemed to be watching them.

She placed a hand on the table, her fingers grazing his glass as she leaned in, making the air between them thick with her presence. That's when he noticed it—a small brand on her wrist, partially hidden by the long sleeve of her jacket.

"Warlock," he muttered without thinking, the word slipping from his lips like a curse.

The playful smile on her face faltered, and her eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them. "You know about that?" she asked, her tone shifting, losing its sugary sweetness.

John leaned back, studying her reaction. "Let's just say I've been around. I've seen things." He took another sip of whiskey, letting the warmth spread through him, keeping his demeanor calm even as tension crackled in the air between them.

John leaned back harder in his chair, trying to project an air of relaxation, though he knew full well he wasn't fooling anyone—least of all her. The brand on her wrist said it all. A warlock's mark, a taboo even among other mystics. She was registered with the council, and that meant only one thing.

"What do they want? Did they send you here to get me? Are you going to try to force me?"

He watched as the flirtatiousness faded from her demeanor, replaced by a posh accent that dripped with a hint of disdain.

"Nothing of the sort. I suppose there's no use in attempting any sort of misdirection with you."

He nodded, preferring this candid approach—at least as candid as he expected anyone working for the council to be.

"I've been requested to recruit you for something specific. A particular member of the council has asked for your assistance because of your skill set."

John rolled his eyes. "There are other hunters. They can do the job just as well as I could."

She replied quickly, her tone firm. "If that were the case, they would have been asked. Instead, I've been sent to get the reluctant hunter who wants nothing to do with the council at all. While I understand and sympathize with your feelings, I have been sent here regardless."

John took a moment to digest her words, irritation simmering beneath the surface. "What makes them think I'd want to help?"

"Because," she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper

she continued, her tone taking on a serious edge, "I'd prefer you to do this willingly. But at the end of the day, it doesn't really matter. One of your contacts, Antonio, has called in one of his favors. The debt must be paid, and he owes a lot to the council member who requested you. As such, you're expected to answer his request."

John cursed under his breath, the annoyance bubbling to the surface. This was precisely the kind of thing he had tried to avoid—knowing full well the sort of debts hunters and the commission held with one another. It was a tangled web of favors and oaths, a relentless cycle that always seemed to come back around when he least wanted it. There were rules, yes, but they were often bent or broken, and he felt the weight of that irritation settle heavily on his shoulders. She was right; he could say no, but deep down, he knew he wouldn't.

"Fine," he said, exhaling sharply. "What's the job?"

She leaned in closer, lowering her voice as if the very walls might be listening. "There's been a string of murders—various killings that don't quite make sense. But there's a pattern. The only connection we've found so far is that the victims were either beholden to or directly part of the council."

His brow furrowed, skepticism creeping back in. "And you think it's some sort of creature? A monster or something?"

She nodded, her expression serious. "That's the prevailing theory. But we need your expertise to figure it out. Your skills in tracking and hunting are precisely what we require to uncover the truth behind these deaths."

John mulled over her words, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together in his mind. The council wouldn't just call him in for a simple investigation unless there was something more at stake. "What do you want me to do?"

"Gather information, investigate the crime scenes, and track down any leads. You know how to find the threads in these cases. We need someone who can navigate both the human and supernatural elements involved."

John studied her, his gut telling him there was more to this than she was letting on. "What's your name?" he asked, curiosity piqued.

"Helena," she replied smoothly. "But for now, you can just call me that."

"Is that your real name?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That's what you can call me for now," she said, her smile enigmatic.

He let out a resigned sigh, realizing he was already too deep in this. "Alright, Helena. I'll do it. But I'm not promising anything."

She smiled, the tension easing slightly. "That's all I can ask for. Just know that time is of the essence."

John nodded, steeling himself for the task ahead. He knew this was going to be a complicated mess, but perhaps it was time to step back into the shadows he'd tried so hard to escape.