"It's only natural that I came after you," Locke said evenly, his voice steady through the speakerphone. "You fought back and killed my people. That's on you."
Across the city, standing in front of a towering French window that overlooked Manhattan's skyline, Deacon Frost narrowed his eyes. His face was almost too refined, too smooth, giving him an androgynous elegance that concealed the violence beneath. The city lights reflected faintly in the glass, casting long shadows behind him.
He had expected anger. He had expected threats. What he had not expected was this tone—measured, almost casual.
Yes. It was precisely because of that retaliation that he had brought the matter before the Thirteen Elders. His original plan had been simple: eliminate Locke and Brown publicly and make an example of them. Kill the agents, crush the Sentinel Special Service's pride, and remind everyone who truly ruled the night.
The Elders had refused.
"The covenant exists to be observed, not broken," they had said. In recent years, some supernatural factions had grown restless, eager to tear up the old agreements. But none dared make the first move. No one wanted to provoke the five overlords who held the balance of power. Each possessed the capability to wipe entire regions off the map.
And, inconveniently, the Elders had pointed out something else.
This time, the vampires were at fault.
If the Sentinel Special Service came to investigate, then the proper response was to cooperate. Not retaliate. Not escalate. Certainly not murder federal agents.
Frost's jaw tightened at the memory.
When the Sentinels began hunting vampires across New York in retaliation, the thirteen pure-blooded elders had merely waved it off.
"Let them kill," they had said. "Once they've vented enough, they'll calm down."
The dead were half-bloods.
No one in the upper echelon would shed tears for them. Kill a hundred. Add another zero. It changed nothing. The pure-bloods would not feel a thing.
That was the brutal hierarchy of vampire society. The thirteen pure-bloods stood at the apex. As long as they survived, extinction was impossible. Give them one night, and they could rebuild the race from nothing.
Even if every vampire in New York were wiped out.
Even if Deacon Frost himself were executed.
Because in their eyes, he was still a pariah.
The so-called leader of New York's vampire underworld was, to them, nothing more than a useful mutt.
Frost's fingers curled slightly behind his back.
Damned relics. Fossils clinging to power. How was the race supposed to ascend with that kind of thinking?
One day. One day he would find—
He exhaled slowly, forcing the anger down.
For now, he had to obey. The Elders demanded that he settle the Sentinel conflict immediately. And his larger plan required stability. A war with federal agents was an unnecessary complication.
He lowered his gaze, voice smoothing out.
"We can resolve this peacefully, Mr. Underwood."
"Call me Agent when we're working."
A fractional pause.
"…Agent Underwood."
Frost closed his eyes briefly, steadying his breathing. "If this continues, it benefits neither of us."
In a modest apartment in Queens, Locke leaned casually against the bar counter. Brown stood nearby, arms crossed. Debbie hovered close, listening carefully.
Locke glanced at Brown, then at the phone with the speaker turned on. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"What does Mr. Frost propose?"
"Two million."
Locke lifted a brow. "Excuse me?"
"I am willing to pay two million dollars as compensation. We settle the matter. It ends here."
Silence followed.
Locke whistled softly under his breath. "You vampires really are loaded."
Two million dollars. Offered without hesitation.
He looked at Brown again.
Brown didn't speak, but his expression said enough. Two million wasn't pocket change. And after a month of relentless hunting, the raw edge of vengeance inside him had dulled. The anger that had driven him had cooled into something quieter.
Locke studied his partner's face for a moment, then smiled.
"Alright," he said into the phone. "How do we make the exchange?"
On the other end, Frost chuckled.
"Direct and efficient. Tonight. Seven o'clock. The abandoned hangar beside Kennedy International Airport."
Locke's eyes narrowed slightly.
He didn't respond immediately.
Frost's laughter deepened. "Agent Underwood… you're not afraid, are you?"
"Yes," Locke replied without hesitation. "I'm worried it's a trap."
Night was a vampire's domain.
It was also his.
But there were levels to risk.
Locke had already made up his mind about one thing: until he accumulated enough extraordinary points, until he truly had the strength to stand alone against the world, he would focus on steady development. No reckless heroics. No gambling his life for pride.
He wasn't interested in playing weak to lure enemies in. But he also wasn't interested in dying before his foundation was solid.
Slow growth now meant dominance later.
When the day came that he no longer needed caution—
He almost laughed at the thought.
For now, bravery was acceptable.
Recklessness was not.
On the line, Frost laughed again. "That doesn't match the reputation I've heard."
Locke tilted his head slightly. "And what reputation would that be?"
"The Agent Underwood and Mr. Brown I know," Frost said smoothly, "are executioners within the Sentinel Special Service. You don't leave survivors. Vampires. Mutants. Doesn't matter."
The apartment grew quiet.
Locke and Brown exchanged a look.
Then both turned toward Debbie.
Debbie blinked under their stare, slightly confused. "Boss… you really don't know? That's your nickname in the bureau."
She had assumed they were aware.
Earlier that year, when agents from Groups One and Five were attacked by mutants, there had been internal outrage. The difference was simple: some teams merely arrested mutants.
Group One—Locke and Brown—killed them.
Now the mutants avoided attacking agents known to execute them. Instead, they targeted those who only made arrests.
It created an ugly question within the bureau: did being merciful make you an easier target?
Locke and Brown looked at each other again.
There was mutual speechlessness in that glance.
Locke felt something close to injustice rise in his chest.
God was his witness. He had never personally killed a mutant. Not once.
So how exactly had he become the bureau's so-called executioner?
For the first time, he truly understood what it meant to be wrongly accused.
But now wasn't the moment to debate office rumors.
He cleared his throat, picked up the phone from the counter, and spoke evenly.
"Alright. I'll agree. But I have one condition."
Frost's voice carried a faint smile. "Go on."
"You come in person."
A brief pause.
"The infamous leader of New York's vampires," Locke continued casually. "I'd like to meet him. And if nothing unexpected happens, I imagine our paths will cross again in the future. Don't you?"
Silence stretched across the line.
Locke smiled faintly at the quiet. "What's wrong, Mr. Frost? Afraid you won't walk out alive?"
"No."
"Oh?"
"You can't kill me!"
...
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