The Hunter

They emerged from a sewer grate in District 9, collapsing into the mud.

Behind them, the Ministry tower was burning. A pillar of black smoke and blue fire punched a hole in the yellow smog. The ground shook as the Under-Sanctum collapsed, burying the archives, the Enforcers, and the horrors.

The rain was falling harder now. It washed the slime from Silas’s coat.

He sat up, breathing heavily. He looked at the city. It was in chaos. The lights were flickering and dying as the power source was severed. Riots were breaking out in the Gilded Heights.

"We did it," Elara whispered, clutching her shoulder. "We hurt it."

"We woke it up," Silas corrected. "It’s not dead. It’s just... angry."

He looked down at his arm.

His coat sleeve was shredded where the Husker had scratched him. He peeled back the fabric.

The skin underneath was red, inflamed. And in the center of the wound, spreading outward like a bloom of gold leaf, were scales.

Shimmering. Hard. Perfect.

He touched them. He didn't feel disgust. He felt a hum. A connection. He could hear the distant, angry song of the survivors underground.

He was infected. The germaphobe was unclean.

Elara saw it. She stiffened. "Silas..."

Silas pulled the tattered sleeve down, hiding the gold. He picked up his truncheon.

"The Ministry will try to rebuild," he said, his voice devoid of fear. "They will try to harvest the survivors."

"What do we do?" Elara asked. She looked at him, waiting for the detective to arrest her, or the man to give up.

Silas stood up. He looked at the burning skyline. He wasn't the prey anymore. He wasn't the victim. He was part of the dragon now, and he knew exactly where the weak spots were.

He checked the magazine of his pistol.

"We hunt," Silas said.

He turned and walked into the darkness of the Scale Wards, the golden scales on his wrist catching the light of the burning city.