John Powers looked out over his city from a rooftop, a pair of binoculars held firmly to his face in his pale hands. He'd been living in the shadows and fighting crime from it for more years than he cared to count, but the police never seemed to complain. And that was because he didn't hunt down human criminals - no, he dealt with the supernatural. Sure, the regular cops did their jobs well enough, but to date, eh hadn't seen any of them stop a vampire attack or put a silver bullet through a werewolf's paw. That was where he came in. John, unbeknownst to the humans in his city, had equipped himself with all manner of anti-supernatural weaponry. He had holy water and salt for the unholy abominations, silver bullets from melted crosses to cure werewolves, stakes and garlic for vampires - he'd even kept a pair of iron shackles with him if he ever came across a rogue elf. He had to be prepared, though, in a city as dangerous as his. And, while he usually worked alone, this time was different. He needed help. He was going to be raiding a necromancer's den, and if there was one thing he didn't need, it was a horde of a psychotic old man's thralls bearing down on him without someone backing him up. It was to be a small-scale operation, something kept quiet, so he'd only had one other person accompany him. But he'd contacted the best he could. All he could do was hope he'd chosen well.