The acid rain of District 13 did not care for the sacred or the profane. It hissed as it struck the ancient, soot-stained gargoyles of St. Jude Parish, dissolving the centuries of industrial grime only to replace it with a fresh, corrosive sheen. On the cracked stone steps of the church, the headlights of the unmarked police cruiser cut through the toxic steam, casting long, predatory shadows that stretched up the heavy oak doors.

Jack Mercer stood frozen in the deep shadow of the iron gate, his breath hitching in his throat. His body was a map of raw, unhealed trauma. Beneath his wet leather duster, the chemical burns from his encounter with Acid Annie flared with a dull, white-hot heat. His right hand, bound in layers of stiff, blood-smudged medical tape to stabilize the fractured bones Sledge’s hammer had shattered, was entirely numb. His sprained left wrist throbbed beneath its tight bindings. He had no gun. His father's service revolver, the six-shot symbol of uncorrupted law, was gone—buried in the dark, flooded filth of the Black Sump.

He was unarmed, broken, and his DIY Neural Collar was a ticking clock, its backup battery humming at a fragile eighty percent against his throat. Yet, as he watched Officer Briggs raise his high-voltage shock-baton toward Father Raymond, Jack felt a cold, familiar anger drown out the pain.

"I’ll ask you one more time, old man," Officer Briggs sneered, the blue electrical arcs of his baton illuminating the cruel, greedy smirk on his face. "Move aside. The NCPD doesn't need a warrant to clear out a nest of traitors. Sterling is inside, and if I have to step over your corpse to get to her, I’ll write it down as resisting arrest."

Father Raymond did not flinch. He stood tall in his faded black cassock, his wrinkled hands gripping the heavy iron cross hanging from his neck. "This is a house of God, my son. No weapons are permitted within these walls. If Detective Sterling is seeking sanctuary, she will find it here. You have no authority under this roof."

Briggs laughed, a harsh, grating sound that was swallowed by the roll of thunder. He raised the baton, preparing to strike the frail priest.

Jack knew he couldn't take them in the open. There were three of them—Briggs and two heavily armed patrolmen, their tactical visors glowing a faint, menacing red. If he stepped into the light, they would drop him before he could close the distance. He had to use the shadows. He had to use the chapel itself.

Slipping backward into the darkness of the side alley, Jack pressed his back against the cold, damp stone of the church wall. His bloodshot eyes scanned the Gothic facade until he spotted a loose, arched stained-glass window leading into the choir loft, about fifteen feet up.

*The climb is going to kill you, Jack,* his internal logic whispered.

*"Then let me take the wheel, cop!"* Brick Malone’s voice roared from the dark, locked corridors of his mind, a coarse, gravelly vibration that rattled Jack’s teeth. *"Let me turn these soft, broken hands of ours to granite! I’ll scale this wall in two bounds and cave that pretty boy’s skull in! Let me out!"*

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, his left hand clenching around the cool, tarnished silver of Sarah’s locket in his pocket. The physical contact was his grounding wire, a brief spark of reality that forced Malone's voice back behind the cracking mental partition. *No,* Jack thought, his jaw clenching. *I control the shell. I don't kill cops who are just following orders. I do this my way.*

Gritting his teeth, Jack reached up and grabbed the rusted iron drainpipe with his left hand. The sprained wrist screamed in protest. He forced his fractured right hand to follow, the unset bones grinding together beneath the medical tape. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spike that made his vision flicker with blue static, but he didn't let go. He hauled himself up, inch by agonizing inch, his boots finding traction on the rough stone. By the time his fingers hooked over the sill of the stained-glass window, his forehead was slick with cold sweat, and his collar’s battery indicator flickered down to seventy-eight percent.

He pushed the loose window pane inward. It gave way with a soft, rusted groan. Jack wriggled through the opening, rolling onto the dusty pine floor of the choir loft just as a flash of lightning illuminated the vast, empty nave below.

St. Jude’s interior was a cavern of silent shadows, smelling of beeswax, old paper, and damp stone. But the sacred silence was already being defiled. Below, the heavy oak doors groaned as Briggs’s men began to force them open.

Jack stayed low, crawling through the dust of the loft. He heard a soft, rhythmic creak of floorboards behind him. He spun, his heart hammering.

One of Briggs’s patrolmen had already entered through a side vestibule and was creeping up the stairs to the choir loft, his tactical rifle raised, the red beam of his laser sight scanning the pews.

Jack withdrew into the shadow of the massive pipe organ, his mind racing. He had no weapon, no way to neutralize the guard from a distance. He had to execute a Silent Takedown.

He waited, his breath shallow, as the patrolman stepped onto the loft floor. The guard’s boots clicked softly against the pine. He was five feet away. Three feet.

Jack lunged from the shadows.

Because his right hand was fractured and useless, Jack threw his left forearm around the guard’s throat, pulling him backward into his chest. He used his legs to lock the guard’s hips, preventing him from finding leverage. The patrolman gasped, his rifle clattering to the floor as his hands clawed desperately at Jack’s arm.

Jack squeezed, his sprained left wrist screaming under the strain. The physical exertion was immense, his muscles trembling as he fought to keep the guard quiet. The patrolman thrashed, his heavy boots kicking against the wooden floorboards, the sound muffled only by the roaring rain outside. Slowly, the guard’s movements grew sluggish, his eyes rolling back under his tactical visor until he went limp in Jack’s arms.

Jack lowered the unconscious man gently to the floor, panting. He checked his wrist-link. The collar’s battery had dropped to seventy-five percent. The physical strain of the takedown had accelerated the drain.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked loudly near the stairs.

Jack froze. He looked down the spiral stone staircase. A second patrolman was standing at the bottom, his tactical visor glowing red in the dark. The guard had heard the struggle. He raised his high-voltage shock-baton, the blue electricity crackling as he charged up the stairs.

"Briggs! Up here!" the guard shouted, his voice echoing through the empty church.

Jack had no time to hide. As the guard reached the top of the stairs, he lunged, swinging the crackling baton toward Jack’s head.

Jack’s reflexes, honed by years on the street, kicked in. He couldn't dodge in time. He tensed his muscles, focusing on the memory of Brick Malone’s dense, unyielding skin.

*Concrete Hardening.*

Instantly, the white of Jack's eyes flashed a brilliant, unstable blue—the Blue Sclera Flash. A rough, grey, stone-like texture erupted across his left forearm just as the shock-baton struck.

*Crack-crack!*

The baton hit the concrete armor with a deafening burst of electrical static. The stone skin absorbed the physical impact, preventing the metal from shattering his arm, but the high-voltage current did not stop. The electricity surged through the stone, traveling up his arm and directly into his DIY Neural Collar.

The collar sparked violently, its electromagnetic hum rising to a painful, high-pitched shriek. The electrodes at the base of his skull bit deep into his raw, scarred tissue. On Jack’s neck and temples, glowing blue veins flared to life—the Glowing Neural Scarring, pulsing with unstable psychic energy as his brain waves violently destabilized.

"Agh!" Jack groaned, the pain blinding him.

*"Let me out!"* Malone’s voice screamed, his persona clawing at the cracking mental partition, attempting to force Jack into a complete Fugue State. *"He’s frying us! Let me crush him!"*

Jack fought the tide, his teeth grinding until they bled. He used the agony to fuel his next move. With his right hand still fractured and useless, Jack reached out with his left, concrete-hardened hand, grabbing a heavy brass candlestick from a nearby side altar. He swung it with all his remaining strength, striking the patrolman’s helmeted temple.

The heavy brass dented the tactical helmet with a dull, metallic thud. The guard’s eyes went wide, his baton slipping from his fingers as he collapsed backward down the stone stairs, rolling to a stop on the cold marble floor of the nave.

Jack fell to his knees, clutching his neck as the blue veins on his temples slowly faded back beneath his skin. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. He checked his wrist-link.

Sixty percent.

The battery had taken a massive hit from the electrical discharge. The collar’s hum was weak, erratic, and his right hand was beginning to paralyze, a painful muscle spasm locking his fingers into a claw-like grip. He was physically depleted, his body rejecting the neural fluid as the physical strain of the concrete power pushed his brain to the absolute limit.

From the front of the church, the heavy doors clicked shut.

Jack looked down from the loft balcony. Officer Briggs had entered the sanctuary, leaving his men outside to secure the perimeter. He was alone in the center aisle, holding a heavy-gauge tactical shotgun. The white beams of his flashlight cut through the dusty air, washing over the empty pews and the altar.

"Sterling!" Briggs called out, his voice echoing mockingly off the high stone vaults. "Your boys are down. You're completely alone. Come out of the crypts, or I’ll start burning this place block by block. My uncle doesn't care if this church is standing tomorrow, and neither do I."

Jack knew Jane was hiding in the lead-lined crypts beneath the altar, completely sealed from the city's scanners. But if Briggs reached the sacristy door, he would find the entrance. Jack had to stop him. Now.

Using the shadows of the massive stone columns, Jack slipped down the stairs, his boots making no sound against the damp stone. He utilized his Slum-Stealth Technique, blending into the darkness of the side aisles as Briggs slowly walked down the center of the nave, his shotgun raised.

Jack flanked him, moving parallel to the altar. He spotted the wooden confessional booth near the rear of the nave, its heavy velvet curtains hanging still in the dark. If he could corner Briggs inside the narrow, wooden enclosure, he could disarm him without a fight.

Jack slipped into the priest's side of the confessional, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs. He waited, his left hand trembling violently as the neural spasm began to spread up his arm.

Briggs’s footsteps grew closer, the heavy leather of his boots clicking rhythmically against the marble. The beam of his flashlight washed over the wooden booth, illuminating the carved oak panels through the thin curtain.

"I know you're in here, detective," Briggs whispered, his voice dangerously close. He stopped directly in front of the confessional, his shadow falling across the curtain. He reached out with his left hand, slowly pulling the velvet drape aside, his shotgun raised and ready to fire.

Jack tensed, his left arm preparing to strike, his mind screaming for a final burst of Concrete Hardening to block the weapon.

But as he tensed his muscles, his glowing neural scars flared violently. A sudden, white-hot spike of agony shot through his brain stem, and his collar emitted a dying, crackling spark.

A massive, uncontrollable tremor racked Jack's entire body. His left hand locked up, paralyzed by a violent muscle spasm, and his vision was instantly flooded with a blinding web of blue neural static.

He couldn't move. He couldn't strike.

Officer Briggs pulled the curtain completely back, his flashlight beam blinding Jack’s blue-flashing eyes. Briggs’s cruel smirk widened as he recognized the disgraced detective, and he raised the heavy barrel of the shotgun, aiming it directly at Jack’s chest.