The storm left streets wet and humming with leftover electricity. Down Booker Street, in the alley behind Dalrymple’s, where small bags changed hands under watchful eyes of neon, and blows were exchanged, a dark shape hunched by a dumpster. Gehenna’s fever dream palette—LED security lights mixed with bar signs, and the otherworldly glow that shrouded the city at night—traced a soft outline over the body. Black liquid that would be red in daylight oozed from the knife wound in its throat. Once again, the shape writhed. Something black and deformed tore at the air, its panicked wails might’ve been pitiful to the right ear. The thing lowered itself to the…