The mission chapel smelled of candle wax and mildew, the lingering scents of desperation and faith mingling in the humid air. Elias Silang pressed his back against the chipped altar, his hoodie damp with sweat despite the midnight chill. His knees ached from hours of sitting cross-legged on the stone floor, but he didn't dare move. Not with the box watching him.

It sat in the center of the nave where Padre Mateo had left it three nights ago—a wooden crate no larger than a shoebox, its surface carved with symbols that made Elias's eyes water if he stared too long. Silver nails sealed its edges, their heads blackened as if scorched. The most unnerving part was how the shadows around it twisted, curling away from the moonlight like living things.

"Do not open it until you hear the footsteps of darkness."

Padre Mateo's final words had been delivered with a priest's calm, but the old man's hands had trembled as he pressed the box into Elias's grip. The memory made Elias's stomach churn. He'd seen that kind of fear only once before—when he was twelve, watching the padre perform an exorcism that left both the possessed girl and the priest hospitalized.

A cockroach skittered across the floorboards near the box. Midstep, its legs locked. The insect vibrated violently before exploding in a puff of black dust.

Elias swallowed hard. Definitely not opening that.

Outside, Tondo was breathing its night rhythms—the distant wail of karaoke, the hiss of stray cats fighting over fish bones, the ever-present undercurrent of engines and shouting. Normal sounds. Human sounds.

Then the screaming started.

Not the usual drunken brawl. This was raw, primal terror—a woman's voice shredding itself on sheer panic. A child's cry followed: "Help! He's hurting my mom!"

Elias's body moved before his brain caught up. He shoved the box into his backpack, the wood unnaturally cold even through the fabric. His fingers brushed the blessed baton strapped beneath the pew—a length of narra wood carved with psalm fragments and soaked in chrism oil. The weapon felt laughably small against the guttural growl that answered the child's plea.

The chapel doors rattled in their frames.

Elias froze. The streetlamp outside flickered, casting jagged shadows across the stained glass. Something was out there—something that moved with the jerky, wrong cadence of a marionette with cut strings. The smell hit him first: rotting meat and gasoline, undercut by the sweet decay of mangoes left to ferment in the gutter.

Scratch-scratch-scratch.

Claws on wood. The sound drilled into Elias's skull, setting his teeth on edge. His backpack grew heavier, the box inside pulsing like a second heartbeat.

"Elias..."

The voice wasn't human. It buzzed, layered with the drone of flies and the wet crackle of burning fat. The door creaked open, revealing a silhouette too tall for the frame, its head cocked at an impossible angle.

"That's your name, isn't it?"

Moonlight glinted off yellowed teeth in a smile that split the face ear to ear. The creature's eyes burned like dying embers, fixed unblinking on Elias's throat.

The box in his bag turned scalding hot. Elias gasped as the heat seared through the fabric, branding his spine. The creature's grin widened.

"Oh good," it crooned, stepping forward. "You've met the Vessel."

Elias's hand found the blessed baton. The wood burned against his palm—not with heat, but with the electric sting of live wires.

Padre Mateo's voice echoed in his memory: "Strike true and don't hesitate. Demons feed on doubt."

The thing lunged.

Elias swung.

The baton connected with the creature's temple in a burst of blue sparks. A howl split the air—not pain, but rage—as the demon staggered back, its face melting like wax under a flame. The stench of burning hair filled the chapel.

"Run, you idiot!"

A girl's voice. Elias turned to see a figure silhouetted in the broken window—a girl his age in a tattered bomber jacket, her arm extended through the shattered glass.

The demon recovered faster than anything human could. Its fingers elongated into talons, shredding the pew between them.

Elias didn't think. He grabbed the girl's hand.

She yanked him through the window with surprising strength. Glass tore at his clothes as they tumbled into the alley, landing hard on cracked concrete. The girl was already moving, pulling him up by his hoodie strings.

"Move your ass or die!"

Behind them, the chapel doors exploded outward. The demon oozed through the opening, its body reforming mid-stride—shoulders sprouting extra joints, skin bubbling with mouths that whispered Elias's name.

The girl threw something over her shoulder. A glass vial shattered at the demon's feet, releasing a cloud of white smoke that smelled of garlic and grave dirt. The creature shrieked, clawing at its eyes.

"Salt bomb," the girl panted, dragging Elias into the maze of clotheslines and shanties. "Gives us three minutes, max."

Elias's backpack jerked violently, nearly throwing him off balance. The box inside was alive, thrashing against his spine like a caged animal.

"What the hell is that thing?" the girl demanded, glancing at his bag.

"I don't—"

"Save it." She cut him off with a slash of her hand. Ahead, the neon glare of Ugbo Street pulsed like a heartbeat. "If we reach the market, we might live. Stay close, and don't let go of this."

She pressed a rusted nail into his palm—its surface etched with tiny symbols that made his skin prickle.

"What is—"

"Anchor charm. Keeps the Nightcrawlers from peeling your soul out through your nostrils." Her grin was all teeth. "Welcome to the war, Elias Silang."

Then she pulled him into the roaring chaos of the night market, just as the first streetlight behind them burst in a shower of sparks.