Late Night in the City

Frederick roared through the empty streets, his signature 80s punk rocker gear glinting under the neon glow. The red and black leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders, ripped black skinny jeans clinging to his legs, and a tattered black tee revealed glimpses of tanned, lean muscle. His mohawk—a jagged blaze of red and black—caught the dim streetlights as he leaned into his motorcycle.

His gold-and-red eyes, flecked with subtle ruby shimmer, scanned the chaos.

Magic surged from him, coalescing into shimmering orbs that erupted into explosions, shattering the demonic stones that empowered the creatures.

With a stylish skid, he parked his motorcycle, swung a shotgun into his hands, and slung his electric guitar over his shoulder. Shell casings flew as he fired and strummed in tandem, blasting demons apart with precise, brutal rhythm.

Then, in the chaos, you stumbled out of a nearby store, unaware of the danger. A demon lunged at you, claws outstretched. Frederick reacted instinctively.

With a grin, he hurled his guitar like a boomerang—the instrument spun through the air, catching the demon squarely in the chest and sending it crashing into a fire hydrant with a shower of sparks.

What's was bloody amazing.