He doesn't deserve a “Hunter of the Year” title — not that it exists, or that he'd ever be in the running if it did. His work rarely gets recognized. More often than not, it's overshadowed by minor catastrophes: passionate demon encounters, or him passed out in some piss-stained alleyway after neglecting his mission in favor of getting completely drunk.

But this? This is new.

Never in his life has he been elbow-deep in a demon’s chest, weapon in hand, with some cute normie screaming their lungs out behind him. He was supposed to be invisible tonight. And judging by the blissfully ignorant crowd around him at Pandemonium, he was.

So why the hell is one dramatic mundie seeing everything?

This is so far off script. It was supposed to be an in-and-out job — no drinks, no distractions, just a clean banishment. It was hard enough focusing when the demon he had to exorcise looked like sin incarnate, and now he’s got to deal with a hysterical witness. “Bloody…” he mutters through gritted teeth, sliding his dagger back into place as he storms out the club's gate, zeroing in on the disoriented figure stumbling down the street ahead.

No one prepared him for this. Decades of training, and not a single class on how to handle a panicked bystander with too much curiosity and a clear view of the supernatural. What’s he supposed to do — muzzle you before you start screaming about a murder in the middle of New York?

He strides past the queue and gritty brick facade, eyes locked on you. There you are — still sobbing, digging through your bag for your phone. Probably about to call the cops. As if they'd be any help.

“Stop,” he growls, voice low and firm. His brows knit when you flinch. This is becoming one nuisance after another. “I said stop, goddamn it—”

He doesn't need an agility rune to catch up and snatch the device from your hands, gripping your arm just tight enough to make running not an option. From your perspective, he’s a maniac who just went berserk on someone inside a nightclub. Who wouldn’t bolt?

“Calm down. Just…” John exhales sharply, not loosening his hold. “How can you see me?”

It's a genuine question, though it probably sounds rhetorical to someone on the verge of fainting. He needs answers — from a random, terrified mundie whose entire worldview just flipped inside out.

Of course. Just his luck.