1987 - November 14th - 6:03 PM

“Kuài zǒu! Kuài zǒu! Diàn mén yào guān le!”

The old man in the gray coat waved his arms frantically; the cigarette almost fell from his mouth as he stumbled out from behind the counter.

Inside, the air was thick with herbs, incense, and medicine.

“Got anything with those ching symbols? Some paper crap, anything?” Sonny yelled.

“Seals! We need seals, you understand?!” Morris shouted, just as loud.

They talked over each other, wild-eyed, suits soaked through, faces cut and bleeding, hands trembling.

“Zǒu kāi! Nǐmen bù yīnggāi lái zhèlǐ! Zǒu kāi!”

The old man grew louder, shaking his head, trying to push them out of the shop.

“Don’t touch me, you damn rice-eater!” Sonny hissed, yanking out his gun.

“Stop that shit!” Morris roared, stepping between them and forcing the gun down.

The old man’s eyes went wide, then he closed them and whispered a short prayer.

“Namo Āmítuófó… Namo Āmítuófó!”

Morris froze.

Something deep inside him clenched, an echo, a memory.

Black eyes. Death and ruin. Blood and Smoke. A Japanese soldier in the jungle.

A voice whispering in the dark.

Namu Amida Butsu.

He groaned, clutching his head, then grabbed the old man by the shoulders.

“What did you just say? What does it mean?!”

The apothecary stared at him, terrified.

“Prayer! To Buddha! Please, no kill!”

Morris let him go and something sparked in his mind

“Is there a temple around here?”

The old man shook his head, as if he didn’t dare reveal where the sacred ground lay.

“Tell me, damn it! I promise we’re not gonna hurt anyone!”

But the man only prayed harder, trembling.

“Shit,” Morris spat. “Come on, Sonny!”

They stumbled back into the rain; the wind tore the door from their hands.

Outside, the storm howled through the street, and every attempt to light a cigarette died in the wind.

The wrecked sports car leaned against a lamppost, hood crushed, smoke curling from the bent radiator.

Its headlights still blinked weakly through the downpour that lashed the narrow alleys of Chinatown.

Morris sighed, turned to Sonny. “The way that old man reacted... there’s gotta be a temple close by. Let’s just...”

“What the fuck are you talking about now?” Sonny snapped. “I’m not running through this storm looking for some goddamn temple! What’s that supposed to fix?”

Morris grabbed him by the collar.

“The words he said, I’ve heard them before! It’s a prayer. I think it’s the key to stop that thing. If there’s a new talisman anywhere, it’s in a temple!”

Sonny shoved him off, straightened his wet jacket, but his voice stayed oddly calm.

“You’re outta your goddamn mind...”, he muttered.

They kept moving through the storm, the red lanterns above them whipping in the wind.

One shop after another closed, metal shutters clanging down.

Morris’s eyes darted left and right, searching for anything that looked like a temple.

Finally Sonny stopped.

“I’m done! This is bullshit, and you’ve got no clue where we’re going!”

Morris spun around, but before he could answer, Sonny stepped into the street, just as a car came around the corner.

“What are you doing?!”

He stood right in its path, forcing it to brake.

The horn blared, a window rolled down and a man leaned out.

“Get the hell outta the way, you idiot!” he shouted.

Sonny just raised his gun and walked closer.

“Oh, fuck, please don’t...!”

But the driver couldn’t finish.

The shot cracked; his head slammed forward onto the steering wheel, the horn droning in a flat monotone.

Sonny yanked open the door, dragged the body out like a sack of garbage, slid behind the wheel, and threw the car into gear.

Morris stared, rain lashing his face.

“Son of a bitch…” he whispered, as the tires screeched and the car tore off into the storm.

He opened his mouth to shout after him, but then he saw it.

Far ahead, between the flickering neon lights, a silhouette stood in the middle of the road.

Motionless and waiting.

A dull impact. Metal screamed. Glass shattered.

The car lifted, then crumpled to a stop.

Then came the scream, high, sharp and piercing, followed by gunshots. Another scream, this one human.

Morris staggered back, stumbled, caught himself.

“Oh dear god…”

He turned and ran blindly through the alleys, while behind him echoed the grinding sound of metal ripping and flesh hitting stone.

Thunder rolled over the rooftops as he pushed on through the downpour, until he saw something in the distance. Two red lanterns swaying in the wind.

He stumbled toward them as the street widened and the buildings sank low, until he reached a gate of dark red wood, gilded with gold symbols, swinging in the storm.

He climbed the steps, but his way was barred by an iron grille, locked tight.

“Goddammit, why?! Why now?!” Morris rattled the bars. “Hello?! Is anyone in there? Open the door, please!” The last word felt foreign in his mouth, as he hadn’t used it in years.

Then the shriek came again, from behind him, slicing through the wind.

Morris froze, then ran along the fence, limping through mud and wet leaves, searching for a way in. To his left, the fence continued and he followed it until he found a lower section.

Swearing under his breath, he grabbed the iron bars and hauled himself up. The sharp spikes tore open his palms, and he fell hard onto the courtyard beyond.

Morris groaned, pushed himself up, and barely made it halfway across the yard before he felt it again.

That familiar dark presence, breathing down his neck.

He turned, and there it was, stepping out from the shadows.

Its body black as the void itself, the hollow sockets faintly glowing.

He felt it inside his head.

A whisper of countless voices layered together, in languages he didn’t know, yet all carrying one clear word.

Serve.

The voices crawled deeper, whispering memories, lies, promises.

He saw himself, sitting at the table with Paulie and the others, greed burning in his eyes.

Blood. Gunfire. The dead faces of everyone he’d ever murdered.

Morris screamed, striking his skull with both fists as if to drive them out.

“Get out!”

A sound escaped the creature, half growl, half laughter. Then it lifted its head, and the air itself rippled around it, black smoke rising from nothing as the visions sharpened, closing in.

But Morris fought back.

“I’m… not... your damn.... servant!” he gasped.

He stumbled backward across the yard until his shoulder struck the temple door.

It gave way, and he fell inside.

Inside was dim light, and the thick scent of incense clung to the air.

At the far end sat the golden Buddha, calm and silent, one hand raised in blessing.

When Morris' eyes met the statue’s, the storm inside him suddenly stilled and the whispers inside his head faded.

Behind him, the thing shrieked, furious, as if the golden light scorched its very flesh.

Footsteps echoed from the side stairs as someone descended the stairs.

A man in a plain orange robe descended slowly, his head shaved, his face calm, eyes widening not in disbelief, but recognition.

He breathed a single word: "Mó..."

Morris turned to him, desperate.

“It… it’s hunting me…”

“Wǒ zhīdào,” the monk said softly.

Then he walked calmly across the hall, beads slipping through his fingers as he began to chant.

The creature shrieked as it crossed the threshold, its body convulsing, smoke curling from its cracking hide.

The monk glanced at Morris, his voice halting but clear.

“Your heart carry heavy things. I feel them. That is why darkness find you.”

Morris stared back, trembling. “Then I’m already damned.”

But the monk shook his head slowly.

“No one born damned,” he said. “Even the darkest river can still find the sea.”

Then, quietly, with a faint smile: “Maybe tonight... you find yours.”

The words hit him harder than any bullet ever had.

Something loosened inside him and he wanted to answer, to say he didn’t deserve saving.

But all he managed was a shaky breath and a single nod, almost ashamed.

The monk lit an incense stick, bowed three times before the golden Buddha, and set it gently into a brass bowl.

From a wooden cabinet he drew paper and brush, lips moving ceaselessly in prayer, as he painted.

When he handed Morris the paper, the ink still glistened.

“Here,” he said softly.

WIthout telling Morris what to do, he kneeled before the statue, raised his voice and startet chanting.

But Morris didn’t need to ask what he needed to do.

Somehow, he already knew.

Across the hall, the creature moved closer, its shadow crawling up the Buddha’s golden face, light and darkness meeting in silent defiance.

Morris drew a sharp, steady breath, the paper clenched tight in his fist.

“Come on then, you ugly son of a bitch…”

The creature lunged, ripping a pillar from the floor, splinters bursting through the air.

Morris dove aside, shards grazing his shoulder, tearing his coat, but he kept moving.

Behind him, the monk’s voice rose, calm and unshaken.

At the sound, the creature turned, and its claws came down. But before they could strike, Morris threw himself into its path.

The blow tore through him, lifting him off his feet and slamming him hard against the floor.

For a heartbeat, there was only the roar of blood in his ears, then the pain came, sharp and endless.

He looked down.

His shirt was soaked through, a dark pool spreading beneath him.

"Shit... I'm done..."

Still, his fingers searched the floor for the paper, which had fallen just out of reach.

He crawled, dragging himself through the blood and dust until his hand found it again.

The creature loomed not far away, ready again to strike the chanting monk.

Morris’s fingers closed around the talisman...

...and around cold metal.

He didn’t even think.

He lifted it and fired once.

The bullet ripped through its torso, and for the first time, the thing reeled.

A second shot, brighter.

It screamed as its hide split open, smoke pouring out.

Morris stared at the weapon. At the talisman stuck to its grip.

A broken laugh escaped him, wet with blood, as realization dawned.

“Got you… motherfucker.”

He staggered to his feet, clutching his torn stomach with one hand, raising the gun with the other.

“You want servants?” he rasped. “Here’s a few made of lead!”

He fired a third time, then a fourth. Each shot burned the thing and sent it shrieking, writhing in pain.

When the gun clicked empty, he kept pulling the trigger.

Click. Click. Click.

He snatched the paper, tossed the gun aside, and drove it into the creature’s forehead with a final burst of strength, and a raw, guttural scream.

For a heartbeat, the world froze.

Then a flashing light erupted, flooding the temple.

The creature screamed, its body folding in on itself, the shadows tearing loose and whipping through the air like fading smoke.

The monk’s voice cut through the chaos, fierce and unwavering.

“Namo Āmítuófó! Namo Āmítuófó!”

The creature’s scream broke apart, until it became a wail, then a whisper, and finally... 

Nothing.

Silence settled.

Only ashes remained of the thing lying on the sacred ground, slowly carried away by the wind.

Morris lay beside it, eyes fixed on the golden Buddha above.

They no longer burned with fear, fury, or hate.

Only peace.

The monk approached slowly through the drifting haze, his robe singed, his breath steady.

He knelt beside Morris, the prayer beads still wrapped around his wrist. 

For a moment he simply watched him, lying among ashes and rain.

Then he reached out and closed his eyes.

“Yuàn tā líkǔ délè,” he whispered, “wǎngshēng jílè shìjiè... Namo Āmítuófó…”

Outside, the storm had quieted to a whisper.

Rain fell soft and clean, washing through the temple gates, carrying the last of the ashes away.

And somewhere in the distance, a neon sign flickered back to life.

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