So, rookie, Torres thinks. I can’t escape the label, not even in dreams. He grips the bat with both hands, ready for anything.

The first thing he sees is a reddish flash.

The cyborg runs with his left arm raised. Sparks fly from his metal knuckles until his whole hand lights up, like a fire truck’s siren.

“Come on, IronShade, give it all you got!” shouts the green-haired girl, jumping with excitement.

Torres grits his teeth, feeling the weight of the bat in his hands, the vibration traveling up his arms like an echo of the red glow. It’s the first time he’s seen a cultist from the Magic Fist in action.

The cyborg charges full speed ahead. Each step rumbles in the narrow alley like a steamroller. His fist is a globe of molten metal illuminating the shifting walls. It seems to grow bigger and brighter, so much that its glow reflects in Torres’ dilated pupils, blinding him from seeing the end of the alley.

The creature doesn’t move. Only the shifting amalgam of shadows around it seems to grow denser. It shows no fear, no intention to flee, as if the cyborg’s attack was nothing but a minor inconvenience in its dreamlike existence.

IronShade lets out a metallic roar, the sound of an old, rusty engine about to explode, and throws his fist down in a crushing blow aimed directly at the cat’s head.

The impact echoes like thunder, and the scarlet energy wave makes nearby windows tremble. But a second before the cyborg’s fist strikes, the creature vanishes, leaving behind a spiral of purple void. IronShade hits the ground with a crash that shakes the alley, raising a cloud of dust and rubble.

A meow rings out, sounding like laughter. From the spiral emerges a monstrous jaw that tears the cyborg’s head clean off, shaking it and spitting it against the alley wall, a tangle of sparking cables.

Torres’ bat splinters and flies apart. The green-haired girl raises hers in a defensive stance.

The cyborg’s body sways to the side, his hand still ablaze, energy still crackling at his wrist. The witch suddenly appears, holding the remains, which begin to disintegrate into Aerena particles, floating like tiny red fireflies.

Amidst the chaos, the intelidogui reappears beside the two bat-wielders, slipping through the alley shadows. It solidifies again, this time with a more defined shape: a feline face carved from ebony, blue eyes fixed on Torres.

“Hey, rookie,” it purrs. “Wouldn’t you like me to hunt a couple of humans for you? We could have some fun. They think nothing will happen. A bite, a little pain, maybe a few distressing moments… but then they wake up in their beds with a smile. Yes, they know nothing. Because with each bite, they die a little; I steal a piece of their souls. An important memory, that unmistakable scent, the warmth of a hug… those are my trophies, the flat fee I charge for waking them up safe and sound in the Vigil. It’s only fair that surviving a nightmare comes at a price, don’t you think?”

Torres feels a chill, a crooked smile forming on his lips. The nightmare speaks to him as if sharing a private joke. The voice in his mind is a sharp whisper, like the crack of ice breaking; each word a cold threat wrapped in velvet. Well, well, looks like I might finally have some fun, he thinks.

“Careful, rookie! Don’t let that monster get close to you!” the girl shouts.

Too late. The creature is already there, purring, rubbing against his right leg… and sinking two small, frost-like fangs between his tendons.

He feels the bite before his mind can process it. An icy jolt, a tug in his neurons. Everything turns blue, and his vision shatters into fragments, like a broken mirror.

Suddenly, he finds himself wandering down a narrow hallway. A chilling mist blurs the scene, and the air smells strangely of electricity and withered flowers. He recognizes a worn sofa, the attic window, the sage pipe broken on the floor…

Iván is there, sitting on the Persian rug, petting the cat. The creature purrs, rubbing against his leg. Torres looks at his hands, dazed. Am I still dreaming? Everything feels different, more real. His brother smiles, a frozen smile, as if he knows something Torres doesn’t.

“Hey, Di,” Iván says without looking at him. “Always so serious, huh?”

Torres doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s trapped in this vision like an unwanted guest in his own dream. His brother reaches into his pocket and pulls out something. A floppy disk. A damn floppy disk, as if it were the twentieth century. The cat turns to him, its blue gaze piercing through him.

“This is for you,” Iván says, extending his hand toward the void.

Torres reaches out, but before he can touch it, the scene dissolves. The icy mist covers everything and sucks him back.

The alley. He’s back. The nightmare releases him, and Torres collapses to the ground, gasping. Next to him, the green-haired girl looks at him with a mix of confusion and distrust.

“Alright,” Torres says, petting the monster. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, or where you got that from, but we’ll do it your way. You’d better give me a good discount, my friend…”

He stands up, clutching the remains of the bat with both hands, ready for anything.

“What the hell are you doing, rookie?” Blair shouts, charging toward them, his voice dripping with contempt.

Torres grits his teeth, his eyes locked on the creature’s. He feels the weight of an imaginary floppy disk in his neurons.

“Let’s go,” he says, spitting on the ground. “Let’s start the hunt.”

Blair is already on them. He shoves the girl aside and smirks. But it’s a brief smile. Then, without warning, he hits Torres in the stomach with the metal bat.

“Piece of shit rookie.”

Torres feels the air leave his lungs and falls to his knees. Pain surrounds him, and before losing consciousness, he hears the witch’s laughter, like a distant echo.

Then, he wakes up.

The gray ceiling of the attic greets him like an old recurring nightmare. Outside the window, Madrid awakens amidst the fog and the blinking of the first traffic lights.

Vigil, reality. And yet, something has changed. The cat, his brother, a floppy disk. He needs answers. But first, a shower. Sometimes, dreams leave more dirt than reality.

He stands up, his head still spinning, feeling his feet crush the remains of the sage pipe scattered over the Persian rug.

The hunt has begun.