From the shadows, a figure emerged – tall, imposing, and utterly calm. His movements were smooth, almost unnaturally so, as he stepped into the faint light of the city’s glow. Yet he was still a shadow. Jean-Baptiste’s knees buckled as he backed away, his mind unable to comprehend how this man had found him, how he had caught up so quickly.
“You know a soldier named Murphy once said, if you make it hard for the enemy to get in, you make it hard for you to get out,” the eerily calm voice continued.
“No…” Jean-Baptiste whispered, his voice shaking. “No, please…”
But the figure just stood there, his head tilting slightly as if amused by the display of fear. Jean-Baptiste’s heart raced, his breath coming in shallow gasps. There was nowhere to run. The door was blocked. The pipe he had wedged in place was meaningless now.
Terror gripped him as the man took a slow, deliberate step forward, his shadow stretching long across the roof. Jean-Baptiste could feel it – the inevitability of what was about to happen.
The thing that stepped from the shadows wasn’t supposed to be real.
Jean-Baptiste’s breath caught in his throat as the armor caught the light, dull and heavy, clinging to the figure like a second skin. Not protection. Skin. Built for work, no prayer could stop. No mercy lived in it. None.
The hood swallowed his face whole. No eyes. No mouth. No sign of breath. Just a black hollow where a man’s face should have been. Jean-Baptiste’s stomach twisted. You needed a face for the living. Spirits didn’t.
Something gold gleamed on his chest—scales split by a blade. Jean-Baptiste didn’t know its name, but he knew what it meant. Judgment. The kind already passed. The kind you didn’t argue with.
He stood too still. No sway. No shift. No nervous movement. Men moved. Even killers moved. This thing didn’t. Every part of him felt ready, wound tight like a trap laid by something patient. His gloved hands hung loose at his sides, armored fingers twitching just once.
Jean-Baptiste’s blood turned to ice. That twitch wasn’t anger. It was restraint.
The armor fit him wrong—too perfect, molded to muscle like it had been shaped around him through years of blood and repetition. Not street work. Not luck. Ritual. Discipline. Training layered until the man underneath had been scraped away.
This wasn’t just a man. This was something sent.
The darkness clung to him the way dirt clung to a coffin, the way spirits gathered where death walked often. The night itself seemed to lean back, giving him space.
Jean-Baptiste’s mouth went dry. Bawon. Gede. Something that walked between the crossroads and didn’t ask permission.
His presence crushed the air, heavy and final. This wasn’t a man who demanded respect. This was the thing you prayed never learned your name.
Jean-Baptiste’s breath came in sharp, uneven gasps as the figure stepped into the light. His voice cut through the rooftop silence with cold, calculated precision.
“Who is Le Tiburon?, What is the Church?” The man’s tone was not one of inquiry – it was a command. “I got something from your friends before…well, let’s just leave it at before.”
Jean-Baptiste’s wide, terrified eyes darted to the edge of the roof, but there was no escape. The night pressed in around him, thick with fear. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he took a step back, his body trembling from a mix of exhaustion and terror. Every muscle screamed at him to run, but he knew he couldn’t outrun what stood before him.
“Me can’t… Jean Baptiste can no tell you,” Jean-Baptiste stammered, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Le Tiburon – him gon’ kill me. Him gon’ make sure nobody ever find me body.”
The Paladin stepped forward, his voice lowered, dangerous in its quiet calm. “If you don’t tell me, I promise you won’t have to worry about him.”
Jean-Baptiste swallowed hard, his throat dry, and his body still shaking as the Paladin’s cold, unrelenting gaze held him in place. The terror that surged through him at the mention of Le Tiburon’s competed with the dread of the man standing in front of him now; a mythic figure hunting him.
Jean-Baptiste’s head shook frantically, his whole body beginning to tremble. His breath came in short, panicked gasps as sweat poured down his face.
“Le Tiburón…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Him not jus’ one man. Him somet’ing else. Somet’ing worse.”
His eyes darted to the shadows, as if expecting something to emerge from the darkness at any moment. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Him got power—real power. Connected to de Lwa, to de spirits. But not de good ones, no. Him work wit’ de dark side. De Petwo. De hot spirits dat don’ forgive, dat don’ show mercy.” Jean-Baptiste’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “People say him make pacts wit’ Met Kalfou, de master of de crossroads at night. Say him can call de zonbi, make dem do what’eva him want. Make dem kill, make dem—”
He choked on the words, unable to finish.
“Him don’ need no gun to kill you. Don’ need man to fight for him.” Jean-Baptiste swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “De spirits fight for him. W’en him call dem, you can’t run. You can’t ‘ide. Dey find you. Dey always find you.”
His voice rose with desperation, the terror overwhelming him.
“Me see what ‘im do! Me seen a man cross him—jus’ one time, jus’ a small t’ing—an’ tree days lata, dat man start screamin’ in de night. Say somet’ing crawlin’ on ‘im, inside ‘im. W’ithin a week, him was de’t’. But not peaceful de’t’, no. ‘im eyes was open, starin’ at not’in’, mouth frozen in a scream. An’ dey say… dey say ‘im soul never reach Ginen. Say Le Tiburón keep it, trap it, make it serve.”
Jean-Baptiste’s body trembled violently now, his back pressed against the wall as if trying to disappear into it.
“People believe ‘im untouchable. A force you can’t stop. Not wit’ guns, not wit’ police, not wit’ not’in’.” His voice cracked. “’im not human no more. Him somet’ing else. Somet’ing dat walk between de living an’ de det’.”
Then his eyes went wide with sudden, primal terror—the kind that goes beyond fear of pain or death. The fear of something much worse.
“Please…” he whimpered, grabbing at Nate’s shirt. “Please, if him find out me talk to you—if him know me say ‘im name—him gon’ send de zonbi for me. Not to kill me. Worse. Him gon’ make me one of dem. Me gon’ be trap, walkin’ de eart’ wit’ no soul, no mind, jus’ servin’ him foreva!”
His voice broke into a sob.
“Me can’t… me can’t… please, don’ make me say more! Please!”
Jean-Baptiste collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was crouched on the ground, arms wrapped around his head, whimpering like a wounded animal. The shadows seemed to press in around him, and his eyes kept darting to the darkness, expecting something—someone—to emerge and drag him away.
Jean-Baptiste’s head shook frantically, his whole body beginning to tremble. His breath came in short, panicked gasps as sweat poured down his face.
“Le Tiburón…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Him not jus’ one man. Him somet’ing else. Somet’ing worse.”
His eyes darted to the shadows, as if expecting something to emerge from the darkness at any moment. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Him got power—real power. Connected to de Lwa, to de spirits. But not de good ones, no. Him work wit’ de dark side. De Petwo. De hot spirits dat don’ forgive, dat don’ show mercy.” Jean-Baptiste’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “People say him make pacts wit’ Met Kalfou, de master of the crossroads at night. Say him can call de zonbi, make dem do what’eva him want. Make dem kill, make dem—”
He choked on the words, unable to finish.
“Him don’ need no gun to kill you. Don’ need man to fight for him.” Jean-Baptiste swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “De spirits fight for him. W’en him call dem, you can’t run. You can’t ‘ide. Dey find you. Dey always find you.”
His voice rose with desperation, the terror overwhelming him.
“Me seen what him do! Me seen a man cross him—jus’ one time, jus’ a small t’ing—an’ tree days lata, dat man start screamin’ in de night. Say somet’ing crawlin’ on ‘im, inside ‘im. W’ithin a week, him was det’. But not peaceful det’, no. Him eyes was open, starin’ at not’in’, mouth frozen in a scream. An’ dey say… dey say ‘im soul never reach Ginen. Say Le Tiburón keep it, trap it, make it serve.”
Jean-Baptiste’s body trembled violently now, his back pressed against the wall as if trying to disappear into it.
“People believe him untouchable. A force you can’t stop. Not wit’ guns, not wit’ police, not wit’ not’in’.” His voice cracked. “Him not human no more. Him somet’ing else. Somet’ing dat walk between de living an’ de det’.”
Then his eyes went wide with sudden, primal terror—the kind that goes beyond fear of pain or death. The fear of something much worse.
“Please…” he whimpered, grabbing at Nate’s shirt. “Please, if him find out me talk to you—if him know me say ‘im name—him gon’ send de zonbi for me. Not to kill me. Worse. Him gon’ make me one of dem. Me gon’ be trap, walkin’ de eart’ wit’ no soul, no mind, jus’ servin’ him foreva!”
His voice broke into a sob.
“Me can’t… me can’t… please, don’ make me say more! Please!”
Jean-Baptiste collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was crouched on the ground, arms wrapped around his head, whimpering like a wounded animal. The shadows seemed to press in around him, and his eyes kept darting to the darkness, expecting something—someone—to emerge and drag him away.
The Paladin took another step forward, his presence overwhelming, making it impossible for Jean-Baptiste to look away.
Nate realized that Jane-Baptiste was more afraid of the voodoo supernatural that he couldn’t see than the man in front of him now. But what if they were the same…
GJ Bishop 