A Hunter’s rank isn’t just about kill count. Missions completed, types of vamps taken down, combat performance, and how your specialty stacks up against others—it’s all scrutinized.

C-rank wasn’t terrible for someone pulled from the sweep team and thrown into hunting, but I could already see the issues. Peers looking down on me. Atash being an absolute dick.

“Are you sure we should be practicing out here instead of at headquarters?” I adjusted my ballistic vest, its weight a sharp reminder that this wasn’t simulated.

“What better way to get target practice than with a real, moving, breathing target?”

“I could just aim for you,” I muttered, lifting the metal stake in mock demonstration.

He smirked, annoyingly cool. “We can spar after this—if you don’t end up as some vamp’s midnight snack.”

His pace slowed as we neared one of the entrances to the Under Cities. What was once a subway entrance was now a portal to the subterranean networks the elite Bloodfed Vamps called home. 

“We can’t be here. We don’t have permission to go into the Under Cities,” I said, stopping when he did.

“We’re not going in. Just patrolling.”

Right. He was waiting for some desperate, malnourished vamp to try making it into the Under Cities now that the sun was down—one that might decide we were an easier meal than risking rejection at the blood banks below.

“If you’re so eager for a kill, why don’t we patrol the territory’s border instead? There’s bound to be a few Ferals infiltrating tonight.”

“Think you’re ready to take a Feral head-on already?” His brow lifted, the question dripping with condescension. “A malnourished one would be more up your alley, sluggish and clumsy. Ferals lack survival and tactical instincts. They rush straight at you to feed. Stragglers near the—”

He stopped mid-sentence, raising a hand for silence.

I froze, my grip tightening on the stake as the oppressive stillness of the entrance swallowed us whole. Before I could process what was happening, his hand gripped my vest and yanked me towards him, our bodies nearly colliding. The sharp crack of a gunshot exploded near my shoulder, leaving my ears ringing.

I stared at him, stunned, as he let go of my vest. Both hands moved smoothly to steady his gun, his expression sharp and focused. Two more shots rang out, precise and unyielding. “Bloodfed,” he said, sparing me a quick glance. “Use the UV bullets while the Scarlet’s holding her down.”

Swallowing hard, I steadied myself and swapped out the cartridge, fumbling briefly before sprinting toward the Bloodfed.

Up close, she was nothing like the Ferals the sweep team dealt with. Her movements more controlled and calculated. Even in this state, under the strain of the Scarlet Wood, she was dangerous. Silvery eyes flickered in the moonlight, locking on me as her body trembled, fighting the sedative. I had minutes, maybe less.

Gripping the stake tightly, I thrust it into her side, triggering the release mechanism. The first UV bullet ignited, light searing through the wound. Another jab—then another. Each shot sent a flash of light through her, spreading heat that made her skin blister and burn. She screamed—a sound that made my blood chill—before the final bullet took hold.

Her body convulsed, swelling with unnatural heat before bursting apart. Boiling blood sprayed out, scorching my skin as it turned to ash midair. What was left of her collapsed into a smoldering pile of gray dust.

“What the hell was that? We’re not supposed to kill unless they attack first,” I said, sliding the stake back into my belt, my voice tight with unease. Protocol was drilled into us for a reason.

“She did attack first,” Atash muttered, his tone clipped.

My eyes followed his movements as he raised his arm slightly, inspecting a red stain blooming beneath the fabric of his undershirt, just under the edge of his ballistic vest. The slash was jagged, shallow but bleeding steadily.

Shit.

“We need to bandage that before it draws Ferals,” I said, closing the distance quickly.

“You need to work on your awareness, C-rank.” His gun was suddenly pointed at me, and my stomach dropped.

“What—”

“Duck.”

I dropped instantly, the crack of his gun deafening as bullets zipped over me. I turned to see two Ferals charging from the shadows, their pale, wasted bodies snapping into motion.

“I Scarlet, you UV,” Atash ordered, firing again.

“On it!” I called back, adrenaline sharpening my focus as I drew the stake. I lunged at the nearest Feral, my moves more assured this time, the burn of fear tempered by necessity.

The sound of a manic laugh cut through the air, freezing me for half a second. Another Feral approached, his body jerking with unsteady movements, the guttural laugh spilling out like a broken record.

Feralism consistently leads to both physiological and neurological impacts—destroying the body and unspooling the mind. And hearing that laugh this close unnerved me more than I wanted to admit. I steadied my pistol and fired, hitting his shoulder. The laugh cut short as his body staggered, before coming to a halt.

Sliding across the pavement, I dodged another Feral’s swipe as Atash’s shots rang out beside me. The stake felt heavy in my hand as I rammed it into the laughing Feral’s chest, triggering the UV burst. The flash swallowed his body, reducing him to a pile of ash.

More of them were closing in now, their growls echoing in the darkness.

“This was a shit idea, asshole!” I  shouted, gasping for breath.

“But look at how well you’re doing with that stake,” Atash said, far too calm for someone bleeding and surrounded. “You even managed to shoot one.” 

“Yeah, it’s called neuroplasticity. I’m rewiring myself so I don’t fucking die, you idiot.”

He pulled a UV bomb from his belt and lobbed it into the remaining cluster of Ferals. The moment I saw it leave his hand, I bolted, diving for cover just as the blast ignited.

The force knocked me off my feet, and I hit the pavement hard, the breath punched out of me. Hot droplets of black blood spattered across my exposed skin, sizzling faintly before the air filled with the thick, acrid scent of ash.

“A warning would’ve been nice,”  I muttered, struggling to push myself upright. I could feel the fatigue setting in—my arms shaking, breaths coming fast. This night had been too long, but this was the job. Being a Hunter wasn’t glamorous. It was a grueling nine-to-five grind, except it started at 9 p.m., and the overtime might kill you.