"This thing is massive. And the bullet? Even bigger."
Luke weighed the giant pistol in his hand, struggling to find the right words. Calling it a handgun felt generous. Hand cannon was closer to the truth.
Marcus's beard shook with laughter.
"Haha, Officer Luke, don't worry—there's more where that came from."
He reached back into the cabinet like a proud shopkeeper and pulled out military-grade goodies: high-explosive grenades, flashbangs, and a tactical vest loaded with extra pockets.
Luke stared at the pile of gear that could outfit a small squad. His suspicion only grew.
"Marcus, I'm just a local cop. What exactly is the FBI playing at here?"
Marcus's smile faded a little. He leaned in and lowered his voice.
"Officer Luke, I won't lie to you. Our department has run into weird shit for years, and we've barely been able to handle any of it."
He sighed, genuine frustration in his tone.
"We've tried so-called experts. Most turned out to be con artists chasing funding. The rest were too damn strange to work with. You're the first official we've found who can actually deal with this stuff."
"Headquarters specifically ordered us to give you full support. These things don't care what badge you carry."
So that was it.
Luke understood immediately.
He'd spent half a day banishing one half-dead spirit and suddenly became the FBI's favorite new toy.
But he knew nothing came free. Behind the gear was heavy expectation—and a job that could get him killed at any moment.
Still, that was exactly what he wanted.
Higher risk meant higher reward. The more spirits he purified, the stronger he got. As long as he stayed powerful, no one could turn him into their pawn.
"Fine. I'll take it all."
Luke stopped being polite. He packed the giant pistol and the key pieces of gear with quick, practiced movements. The tactical vest Marcus gave him was perfect—it let him strap everything on without slowing him down.
They walked out of the laundromat loaded for war.
In the car, Clarice suddenly spoke up.
"Luke, about you… I reported it. I'm sorry."
Luke didn't even look up from checking his new toys.
"Cut the crap. If I wanted to hide it, I wouldn't have read the Bible right in front of you. Besides, if the FBI really wants to know something, nobody can keep it secret. Might as well be upfront and save everyone the awkward scene later."
He spun a flashbang between his fingers, voice casual.
"And right now, more backup isn't a bad thing."
Clarice's shoulders relaxed at his easy acceptance.
They started the drive back toward the Dolphin Hotel.
They never made it.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Fire trucks screamed past them at full speed.
When they turned the next corner, both of them froze.
Luke leaned forward, eyes wide.
"Clarice—look. Your hotel's on fire."
Thick black smoke billowed from the upper floors of the Dolphin Hotel. Flames roared from one of the middle levels. Guests poured out in panic while the street filled with rubberneckers.
Luke and Clarice didn't need to speak. They threw open the doors and sprinted toward the chaos.
"The fire's on the fourteenth floor!"
Clarice's voice was tight with urgency.
Her room was on the fifteenth—directly above the blaze.
They pushed against the stream of fleeing guests. The hotel manager tried to block Luke.
"Sir, the building is on fire! You can't go back in!"
Luke flashed his badge without slowing down.
"Miami PD. Move."
The manager stepped aside fast.
They charged into the smoke-filled lobby. Elevators were shut down. Luke headed straight for the stairwell.
The stairs were packed with people rushing down. Luke used his enhanced strength to muscle through, clearing a path.
Fourteenth-floor landing was completely choked with thick smoke and blistering heat. Luke grabbed Clarice before she could choke and hauled her up to the fifteenth.
The moment they stepped onto the fifteenth-floor hallway, acrid smoke stung their eyes. Sprinklers rained down, mixing with black soot and turning the floor into slippery mud.
Then Luke caught movement in his peripheral vision.
Clarice's door stood slightly ajar. A figure was slipping out.
Luke recognized the face instantly.
It was the young waiter who had greeted him in the lobby earlier.
"Freeze!"
Luke's shout was a whip crack. He didn't give the man time to react—he drew and fired in one smooth motion.
Bang!
The bullet slammed into the waiter's leg.
The man screamed and collapsed.
Luke rushed forward to cuff him, but the waiter's face showed no pain—only wild, fanatical joy.
He yanked a knife from inside his jacket and drove it straight into his own heart with practiced speed.
By the time Luke reached him, the man was already dead, blood pooling across the floor.
"Tch. Great. No live prisoner."
Luke searched the body quickly. Nothing useful.
"Luke, what happened?"
Clarice finally caught up, breathing hard.
"This kid was trying to rob your room. When I caught him, he offed himself."
Clarice glanced at the corpse, then at her door.
"He must be brand new. Didn't even know the room had a safe."
Luke shook his head. Money really did buy the best toys.
They stepped inside. Sure enough, a heavy wall safe sat embedded in the plaster, covered in fresh pry marks. The fire was spreading fast now—heat already licking at the hallway.
Clarice hurried to the safe and punched in the code.
A shrill alarm blared. The box locked itself permanently.
She slammed her palm against it in frustration.
"Damn it, Luke! That waiter must've tried the wrong code too many times. It's sealed now."
"Don't panic."
Luke studied the safe, knocking on the thick metal. Bullets weren't getting through this thing.
But he had a better idea.
He turned, unslung the Remington shotgun, and aimed—not at the safe, but at the wall right beside it.
"Step back."
Boom!
The safe remained untouched.
The wall next to it, however, now had a massive, smoking hole.