Chicoutimi, Riverside Residences

1:50 AM

Ye Bao was abruptly startled awake from a restless sleep when his phone started obnoxiously playing his work ringtone. He rolled onto his back with an exasperated groan, covering his eyes with a forearm and relishing the sensation of his head sinking into the pillow as the mattress gently adjusted to his new posture.

He really didn’t want to get out of bed. It had been an incredibly taxing week, with the completion of a complex project that had kept him awake for over five consecutive days and nights. Despite his efforts to rejuvenate himself with kinky sex, scrumptious meals, and brief naps between assignments, he still couldn't shake off the weariness that had taken root in his body and mind. He'd tried. Many times. But the fatigue had seeped deep into his bones, leaving him feeling utterly drained. As he lay in bed, he dreaded the thought of having to get up and face another day.

What he wanted—what he truly, truly needed—was at least three days of rest between contracts instead of the less than twenty-four hours of on-call notice he’d been working with for half a year. But it wasn’t up to him. It never was, and it never would be.

He was the most pampered slave in history. But a slave nonetheless. He continuously told his superiors that if things kept going as they were, he would royally screw up and make a terrible, unintended mistake due to exhaustion and a foggy, lagging mind. That was three years ago.

He never made that dreaded mistake, and his superiors didn’t pay attention to his concerns. But it was always there.

That incessant, nagging voice whispered in the back of his mind. ‘Be careful.’ ‘Double-check.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Is that the best way?’ ‘Did you do it right?’

Self-doubt. Stress. Loss of confidence. Anger. Frustration. His patience and self-control were thinned out to the point where he didn’t allow himself to stay out in public longer than needed. He even suspected he was on the verge of developing some form of never-before-seen, supernatural depression if it were possible.

‘They better have a good fucking reason for this shit, or I swear by C—’ His thought was interrupted by a frustrated moan that came from his left, promptly followed by a small, cold hand gently smacking him on the forearm.

“Bao’er...” His wife’s tired tone carried the unspoken promise of retribution.

Ye Bao grunted, refusing to budge. He had no choice, of course; he would answer the fucking phone. But the trivial things, like making his superiors wait, produced that single, glorious drop of serotonin he needed to avoid literally ripping people's heads from their shoulders.

His wife’s hand stopped slapping his forearm and gently fell onto his stomach, her palm flat against his warm skin.

Ye Bao raised an eyebrow, though his eyes remained closed. The feather-light touch of a dainty index finger traced up the middle of his lean abdomen and then ever-so-slowly moved further onto his chest, circling his left nipple.

A tired smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘If only we had—’

Then she twisted his nipple. Hard.

Ye Bao yowled as though he had been scalded with hot water, tucking into the fetal position and flailing sideways hard enough to fall off the bed, taking most of the sheets with him. Thankfully, his right shoulder took the brunt of the impact rather than his face. Not that it would have mattered either way. It was just that he really didn’t like when something messed with his hair.

‘She loves me—she is just being cute. How cute was that?!’ His cheerful inner voice strained to console the irrational anger burning away inside his chest. However, despite his well-maintained personal-growth exercises and collection of anger management books, what came out was:

“What the hell, woman?!” Ye Bao shouted from the floor as he struggled to untangle himself from the sheets tightly wrapped around his lower body.

‘Fucking shitfuck,’ he groused to himself, leaning on his side and reaching around with his free hand to find the edge of the bedsheet hiding under his back. ‘Who the fuck needs Bola wraps when we have bedsheets?’ he wondered, finally snagging that pesky sheet and untangling his legs. His work phone continued merrily playing like a superhero theme song parody in the background. It was surprisingly quite fitting.

“Fuck off,” his wife sleepily mumbled, reaching around and patting the mattress near her ankles for more sheets. Not finding any, she gave up and turned onto her side, pointedly facing away from Ye Bao while cutely curling in on herself for warmth.

His wife shifted, sensuously stretching out a long, smooth leg while keeping the other tucked in. Her ass seemingly grew bigger in that position, and the delicate curve of a breast peeked over her arm.

Ye Bao took a deep, steadying breath to calm his pounding heart.

‘Not now. Fucking ever-loving fuck... but not now,’ he slowly regained control of his rampaging libido. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t beholden to these cravings and urges. He was already a slave to others; he would not be a slave to himself. He calmly locked eyes on his wife’s gorgeous ass, enjoying the view and thinking of all the different ways he would get back at her for the pinch, but on his terms.

‘Been a while since we’ve broken out the cuffs…’ He mused, shelving the thought for later and deciding that self-control didn’t necessarily mean being the better person. He wanted some fun before work. So, he quietly padded barefoot over to find a better angle closer to his wife’s side of the bed. Raised a hand… and brought it down straight onto an ass cheek! This time, it was her turn to yowl like a cat. She was even about to lunge off the bed, but received a pile of sheets directly in the face that gave Ye Bao the second he needed to safely flee the master bedroom, snagging his ringing phone off the dresser as he did so.

A storm of vulgar expletives followed hard on his heels. Snickering, he shut the bedroom door behind him and answered the phone as he walked to his situation room at the back of the house.

“Sweeper Six—predict, weep, shade, curse,” he curtly said in his work voice.

“…Confirmed,” A masculine voice responded on the other line before continuing:

“New contract. On-site transport in five. Alpha priority—Vermillion. Debrief en route.”

Ye Bao’s brow furrowed in thought as the seriousness of the situation became clear. On-site transportation wasn’t uncommon but implied that the typical emergency response unit couldn’t contain the situation. The alpha priority designation alone indicated that his superiors considered the situation extraordinarily volatile and with a high probability of exposure to civilian elements. Tacking on an additional Vermillion specificity meant that the situation was beyond any form of containment, would require considerable efforts from special teams to suppress, and civilian exposure was all but guaranteed. This was a worst-case scenario designation. One that meant his superiors were caught entirely off guard and needed to regain control of the situation as quickly and silently as possible, sparing no effort with either manpower or resources. Ye Bao had taken care of three alpha priorities over the years but never a ‘Vermillion.’

This was a first that made his blood boil with excitement.

“Heard. Gearing now,” Ye Bao replied, swiftly ending the phone call and opening the door to his study. He tossed the cell phone onto the wooden desk on his way to the bookshelf that spanned the back wall's entire length.

Pulling on the spine of what appeared to be a random book, a resounding Thunk! sounded behind the bookshelf before the whole center section sank back into the wall and slowly swung inward to reveal a dimly lit hidden room half the size of the study. Its walls and floor were the same as the study’s, except for the three limbless mannequin stands that were set against the back wall displaying different classes of concealable bulletproof vests. And in the center of the room was a large metallic table, upon which sat five bulky cases with neon-yellow side clasps.

Ye Bao crossed over to the back wall and lifted the nearly weightless vest from the center mannequin—this was a concealable ballistic vest rated against the average person's strength behind a stab or slash, and most small caliber firearms such as .22 LR, .380, .45 ACP, with some minor protection from 9mm and .357 MAG. It was his favorite go-to vest since he wore most concealable armor directly against his skin and preferred comfortable plate carriers. They also tended to be the ones lined with moisture-wicking, breathable fabrics that reduced sweating and kept him feeling refreshed and ready instead of tired and rubbing sweat out of his eyes. It was also a bonus that the vest itself was known as ‘soft armor,’ which provided some basic protection aside from the actual armor plating.

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For example, soft armor was good against indirect small-arms fire and passing slashes. A good, direct stab, on the other hand, would more than likely make it through.

His superiors couldn’t argue with the results of his missions, but he was frequently asked why he chose the lightest class of stab/slash-proof body armor, considering what he faced on an almost routine basis.

His answer was always the same. Mobility and strength were his bread and butter—he didn’t need to avoid high-caliber rounds or weigh himself down with Class IIIA+ body armor if he always shot first and never got hit. And if he did? The other person was dead before they could savor the fleeting victory.

Placing the vest onto the table, he opened the bottom-most industrial metal drawer, removed two rigid armor plates of the same rating, and put them beside the empty vest. He then grabbed the case and spun it around to face him, holding the heavy clasps and popping them open with loud snaps.

The case's lid partially cracked open, allowing him to wedge his fingers between and lift it open entirely. Inside was a completely matte-black Sig Sauer MCX 556 with a built-in full-length top rail, threaded muzzle, and tri-pronged flash hider. The stippled SIG grip was made of a black polymer, the trigger was a Geissele super MCX SSA, the charging handle was a Raptor-LT, and a K20 angled forward grip was attached to the M-Lok handguard bottom railing. There were also four fully-loaded 30-round magazines in the case beside the rifle.

Ye Bao’s eyes rested on the weapon as memories flashed through his mind. Most were nightmarish. It couldn’t be helped; the response was nearly Pavlovian at this point. Opening this case was always a sign that he was about to be deep in the shit. He grunted and pulled open another drawer beneath the table, pulling out a long case and placing it beside the first. Opening it revealed a variety of additional attachments he preferred when necessary, including the small bits and bobs needed to install and remove them.

He considered the situation and decided that a fully-kitted weapon would surely slow him down somewhat, but with how many unknowns he was stepping into, he would rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it. With that thought, he removed the assault rifle and set it down on the table, then pulled a SIG telescoping/folding stock, a Gen II-E 1-6x24 riflescope, a super precision scope mount, and a light-grey sling out from the longer case.

He applied all the additional attachments within forty seconds.

With his primary weapon assembled, he opened a third drawer in the table and removed a plain black, long-sleeved under-armor shirt, a loose black turtleneck, a weighted pair of black bulletproof cargo pants, and a couple of thick socks.

After quickly donning the new clothes, he inserted the armor plates into the vest's front and back carrier pockets before slipping it over his head and allowing its comforting weight to settle on his shoulders. Then he slipped the turtleneck over the body armor and adjusted the neck part that somehow always managed to suffocate him. He then selected a pair of black boots from among dozens of other pairs.

Next, he walked back to the central table, where he scooped up the Sig Sauer and looped the sling over his head before adjusting its position and allowing it to hang comfortably against his chest. Finally, the three additional magazines went into the thigh pockets of his cargo pants. Then he stared at a pristine M1911 still sitting in one of the cases. He waffled on whether to take it, then decided against it—the odds his Sig Sauer wouldn’t get the job done were already low.

The idea that he would run out of ammunition and be close enough to use a sidearm made his temper surge. He closed his eyes.

‘Easy. Easy... Preparation is not cowardice. Retreat... is not fear,' the mere thought of the word 'retreat' and everything it entailed made him want to lash out at something.

He breathed deeply. This was not good. He was losing more and more control each day—and it felt completely random. Somehow this, and not considering which attachments to bring, ignited his short fuse.

He needed to discuss this with his superiors—not that they would listen. Or care. He opened his eyes after completing a third cycle of the breathing exercise his martial arts instructor had taught him.

‘I can do this. I can do this. Choe Yun is waiting for me—this will be over with before sunrise,' he assured himself. Before leaving the room, he assessed himself in the mirror set into the right wall to ensure everything looked right and proper. Tired, black eyes set into a small face stared back at him.

Standing at 5'11'', with straight eyebrows, a slim nose, full lips, pale skin, and an athletic physique, Ye Bao could have been the lead singer in a K-Pop band. If that lead singer also doubled as an infamous contract killer. Other than the bags under his eyes and the assault rifle dangling in front of him, his clothing and hair were normal—nothing out of the ordinary. A passing glance wouldn't merit a response from a civilian.

A muffled ringtone echoed into the hidden room.

Ye Bao nodded to his reflection and exited the armory, sealing the bookcase closed behind him before answering the call. "Ten seconds," the same voice informed him, then the call was dropped.

Ye Bao pocketed the phone into a spare pants pocket and hustled through his large home.

Passing through a well-appointed, expansive living room and a sleek, modern kitchen, where along one wall were floor-to-ceiling windows that revealed a dark, snow-covered backyard. Eventually, he stepped out through the front door and was immediately met with a gust of swirling snow and icy wind. Securing the door behind him, he jogged past the entrance gate, his footsteps crunching through the snow as he kicked up small flurries. Reaching the end of the driveway, he paused, waiting in silence. Amidst the howling wind, he silently counted down to himself, attentively listening.

Tires crunching snow.

Glancing to his right, he caught the moment a modified police Interceptor cruiser barreled down the suburban street, its tires screeching and crushing snow as it came to a halt just beyond his driveway. Even before the vehicle was fully stopped, the backside door swung open.

Ye Bao hurried over, his grip firm on the Sig Sauer as he carefully positioned it between his legs, barrel pointing downwards. He swiftly hopped into the back seat and forcefully shut the door behind him. The cruiser accelerated before the door even had a chance to fully close.

The partition between the rear passenger seats and the front compartment remained raised, separating Ye Bao from the driver and any other occupants in the front.

"Ready and able," Ye Bao confidently stated to the person seated on his right. He recognized the man as one of his superiors, a burly man with olive skin, curly dirty brown hair, and a distinctive hooked nose. He went by the moniker: November.

"Good. We have ten minutes until we reach the target, so listen carefully," November's deep, husky voice resonated in the back of the car. "Approximately fifteen minutes ago, one of our radio teams intercepted a Breach Beacon signal from an emergency response team."

Ye Bao's brow furrowed upon hearing the opening debrief. Was this all a misunderstanding? That's all the evidence they were working with?

Emergency response teams consisted of seasoned strike units, typically composed of two to three highly trained individuals who operated at an average 80% success rate for suppression, containment, or eradication of supernatural forces. They weren't the best the Second Inquisition had to offer—not by a long shot. But they were quick and effective. And sometimes, that's all you needed in a crisis. However, if the leader of an emergency response team determined that the situation surpassed their ability to handle, they were instructed to activate a signal transponder, alerting special teams and command cells that the supernatural event had escalated beyond simple containment. Nonetheless, it wasn't uncommon for emergency teams to occasionally overestimate the level of threat they faced.

November saw Ye Bao's reaction out of the corner of his eye and grunted, "I'm not finished, am I?" He grumbled. "We lost the two-man team's vitals shortly after that."

Now that was concerning, Ye Bao admitted to himself. That admission caused excitement to bubble in his chest unwillingly. He blinked as he caught himself running away with his emotions and started the first series of breathing exercises. November continued without acknowledging this.

"The transponder is still broadcasting. So whatever threat the team encountered didn't notice them activating it—or did, and is incapable of higher thought or critical thinking."

"Location?" Ye Bao preemptively asked with genuine curiosity. He was becoming more and more interested in the situation.

"The downtown Saguenay police precinct."

"Fuck me," Ye Bao muttered. He was sorely regretting not bringing his higher-grade armor plating. If whatever supernatural presence rampaging through a police precinct had opposable thumbs, it also probably had an assault rifle or shotgun. Assuming it could think straight.

"Yes," November gravely said, "We may be dealing with nothing you can't handle, or…” he trailed off.

"We have a backup in case I'm ineffective?" The words caused another surge of anger, but Ye Bao managed to suppress it by clenching his jaw. November's eyes silently regarded him before saying:

"We've alerted the local Camarilla."

"You what?" Ye Bao hissed in astonishment.

"It was necessary. You think I enjoyed it?" November snarled, allowing emotion to show on his face and voice for the first time that night since hearing the news. "We're completely blind going into this, with a high expectancy for civilian involvement. But, I'll readily admit that they...those things are impeccable at mass deception," he sighed. "But, at the very least, if we succeed and manage to catch one of them out scouting, we can interrogate them since we already have you out there."

Ye Bao nodded, though he was curious about how his superiors had contacted the local Camarilla and got them to listen.

‘A spy? Or maybe they used a channel they knew the vampires had already tapped into and used an old code. Of course, that would only work once, but it may be effective,' he was broken out of his musings when his nose twitched. The muted scent of copper filled the back of the car. His pupils dilated, and a deep hunger awoke inside his soul.

"I know what I'm about to ask isn't easy—only God knows everything you've already suffered for our cause," said November, holding up a capped vial of dark red liquid. "I’m aware that you’ve already received your weekly supplement. However... I was authorized to offer you more for this mission," his eyes stared into Ye Bao's, who in turn only had eyes for the vial. Some measure of sadness flashed in November's eyes.

"Are you willing?" He pressed.

Ye Bao blinked. ‘I don't need it. I'll survive until next week.'

The car bounced and jostled over some bumpy patches in the road—the dark red liquid in the vial sloshing up the sides and staining them before slowly flowing back down.

He needed it.

Ye Bao nodded and took the vial in one motion, popping the cap and downing the contents before November, who expressionlessly watched on. Ye Bao offered the now-empty vial back as the blood settled in his stomach like a rock, the heat spreading through his body like he'd swallowed a hand warmer. An inadvertent sigh of satisfaction escaped his mouth, and he cracked his neck from side to side as he felt his blood singing with the urge to fight.

"...How do you feel?" November asked, a trace of caution bleeding into his voice as he examined the man beside him with questioning eyes.

A predatory smile slowly spread across Ye Bao's face. "Like a monster."