CHAPTER 12: HUNTING A WOUNDED PREY
A suffocating silence took hold—a vacuum so absolute it seemed to warp time while Anon writhed, his body a canvas of searing agony. Every pulse of blood felt like a rhythmic fire radiating through his marrow.
Nearby, Viper and Jericho remained locked in a lethal stalemate, their stares riveted, each dissecting the other's frame for the slightest flicker of hesitation.
But Jericho was reading a ghost.
No twitch of a finger. No hitch in his respiration. Viper was an enigma shrouded in a heavy coat, his humanity swallowed by the obsidian glare of his gas mask. There was nothing for Jericho to harvest—no fear, no doubt, no emotion at all.
"Heh…"
Jericho finally punctured the tension with a dry, rattling chuckle. He straightened his back, his gaze lazily trailing down to where Anon lay hemorrhaging in the dirt.
A cruel smirk pulled at his lips. "Alright, alright. If you're going to be like that… I'm done here. Enjoy the mess."
With a flippant flick of his wrist, Jericho turned and sauntered away, his retreating figure radiating a galling sense of boredom as he dissolved into the distance.
"Anon!"
Brea lunged for him, her knees striking the earth with a dull thud. The fabric of her dress instantly wicked up the warmth of the expanding crimson pool.
"Oh God… You're bleeding—so much blood!" she gasped, her voice fracturing under the weight of her terror.
Her hands hovered over the jagged wound, fingers twitching with a useless, frantic energy. She was caught in a paralyzing loop of indecision, terrified that even a touch might hasten the end. In a surge of pure desperation, she looked toward the only shadow still looming over them.
"Please, Viper! Do something—anything!"
Viper watched her through those impassive glass lenses. He stood as a dark monolith for a heartbeat longer… unreadable… unshaken.
Then, a curt, mechanical nod. "...I'll do what I can. Step back."
Brea obeyed immediately, scrambling backward on her knees while her eyes remained fixed on the red staining the soil.
From beneath his coat, Viper pulled out a compact bundle of gauze and bandages. He dropped to a knee beside Anon, already unrolling the material with steady, practiced hands.
"You still with me?" he asked, voice even as his eyes scanned the wound.
"…B-Barely," Anon rasped, the word catching in his throat.
"Good. Means you're not done yet."
Viper pressed the gauze down.
Pain detonated across Anon's back.
"—Ghh…!"
His fingers clawed weakly at the ground, jaw locking tight as he fought to keep from screaming.
"I'm patching you up," Viper said, unfazed. "It's gonna hurt. You'll live."
"O-Okay…"
Viper worked quickly, tightening the initial wrap before glancing up.
"Brea. Lift him—just a bit. I need to get this around."
"Y-Yes!"
She moved fast, slipping her arms under Anon and pulling him up. He was heavier than he looked—dead weight, unsteady. She struggled, but held him in place.
"Like this?!"
"Good. Don't move."
"And keep watch," Viper added. "Anyone gets close, you tell me."
At that, Brea snapped her head up, eyes scanning the chaos around them—figures running, weapons flashing, bodies dropping. The noise never stopped.
"G-Got it…"
Viper didn't waste another second.
He threaded the bandage around Anon's torso—front to back, pulling tight each pass. Blood soaked through almost immediately, but he kept going, sealing pressure into the wound.
Anon sucked in sharp, broken breaths.
"—Agh…! Nngh…!"
Each pull sent another spike of pain through him, but he held it in—teeth grinding, body shaking.
"Almost done," Viper muttered.
One last wrap. A firm pull. A knot cinched tight.
"There."
He pressed the bandage once, checking the hold, then gave a short nod.
"Not pretty, but it'll keep you from bleeding out."
He stood, wiping his bloodied gloves against the side of his coat without a second thought.
"How're you feeling?" he asked. "Still with us?"
Brea shifted under Anon's weight as she helped him up, his arm draped over her shoulders. He sagged against her, breathing rough, unsteady.
"I'll… manage," he muttered.
Viper studied him for a second, then nodded.
"Good. Because we're moving." His gaze flicked around them. "This place is a warzone. We stay, we die."
He turned to Brea.
"Stick close."
No hesitation. No pause.
Viper moved first—cutting a path through the chaos, stepping over bodies and shattered weapons slick with blood. Around them, the violence still raged—steel clashing, voices breaking, footsteps pounding in every direction.
The air was thick with it.
Metal.
Smoke.
Blood.
And death clung to every breath.
We got lucky… Viper thought grimly, his eyes cutting through the surrounding madness.
But he wasn't just searching for an exit; he was hunting for a face.
Then, he found him.
There he is. That four-eyed, Harry Potter-looking bastard.
Jericho stood a short distance away, flanked by a phalanx of black-clothed followers. Their eyes locked across the bloodbath, a brief bridge of recognition spanning the carnage. Jericho didn't flinch. Instead, he offered a lazy, mocking wave before turning back to his lackeys, dismissing them as if they were nothing more than a passing curiosity.
Viper's hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
Goddamn lunatic…
Just as the thought flickered through his mind, a jagged whisper pulled his attention away.
"I'll… kill him…"
"Huh?" Viper looked down.
Anon was staring—no, glaring—at the distant figure of Jericho. He looked less like a boy and more like a feral, wounded beast.
"You… heard me… I said… I'll… kill him!"
An unbridled fire, chaotic and bordering on insanity, swirled in Anon's eyes. Viper watched the boy grind his bloody teeth with such force he expected to hear the enamel snap. His fists were clenched so tight the nails bit deep into his palms, and the arm slung around Brea's shoulders had tightened into a desperate, choking vice that left her gasping for air.
"A-Anon! Please, calm down! You aren't yourself!" Brea pleaded, her voice cracking as tears pooled in her eyes. "I know you want revenge, but you can't even stand. Let's just go… please, I'm begging you!"
Viper watched the scene unfold, his mind working in overdrive. He's snapped, Viper realized. Unprecedented pain tends to do that to a man. I have to settle this before he chokes the girl out.
Reaching out, Viper placed a heavy hand on Brea's trembling shoulder. "Alright, Brea. That's enough. Leave him to me. Just keep watch and stay close."
Without waiting for an answer, Viper uncoupled Anon's arm from her neck. Brea stepped aside, her chest heaving with a mix of relief and terror.
"Hup! Easy, boy. You're with me now."
Viper slung Anon's arm over his own shoulders like a heavy, sodden scarf. Even as they began to move, the boy's voice remained a low, rhythmic snarl in his ear.
"I'll kill him… I'll kill him… I swear… he's dead. He's dead to me!"
"Don't worry, kid," Viper muttered, his voice steady. "I'm sure you'll get your shot. And I'll be right there to help you take it."
The promise seemed to hit Anon like a jolt of electricity. He flinched, his focus momentarily snapping back to the present. Beneath his damp, matted bangs, he cut a sharp side-eye toward Viper.
"Are you serious…?"
"Sure. Why not?" Viper gave a small, grim tilt of his head. "I'm not a fan of that smug, high-and-mighty look he wears either. We've got you. We'll settle the score someday."
"...T-Thanks."
The weight of the promise acted like a sedative. Viper felt the rigid tension begin to drain from the boy's frame, his body going limp enough to manage.
"Don't sweat it, kid. You'll have your day," Viper repeated, his voice dropping to a low, cold promise. "Just you wait."
Despite his reassurances, Viper didn't spare Anon a single glance. He kept his eyes forward, his voice a steady, practiced calm that betrayed nothing of the dissonance echoing in his mind.
Yeah, right. Behind the dark lenses of his mask, Viper's eyes narrowed, masking a smirk heavy with scorn. I doubt you'll ever get your pound of flesh, kid. Even at your best, you wouldn't be able to hold a candle to a man like that. He's the real deal—trained, seasoned, and calculating. You're just a boy playing at war. He adjusted Anon's weight, his thoughts drifting toward the tactical reality. Jericho has an army; you have a hole in your side. My help? Maybe. But I don't work for free, and I certainly don't work for lost causes.
Neither Anon nor Brea could pierce the veil of his thoughts. To them, Viper was a cipher—an impenetrable fortress of heavy canvas, rubber, and glass. His true intentions were buried under layers of gear, safe from the eyes of anyone who might try to exploit a weakness.
Survive, he reminded himself. By any means necessary.
He stole a quick, clinical glance at the boy slumped against him, confirming Anon had finally quieted. Then, he looked back at Brea. She was trailing them, her head snapping from side to side like a rodent sensing a hawk's shadow.
"Hey, Brea!" Viper called out.
"Huh?! Y-Yes!" Brea's response was a sharp, startled yelp. She nearly tripped over her own feet as she spun toward him.
"You see anyone trailing us? Anything suspicious?"
"Umm, uhh… N-No! We're clear for now!" She took one more frantic scan of the ruins before moving closer. Her voice dropped, urgent and thin. "Viper, I have a suggestion."
"Let's hear it."
"We need to prioritize a safe house. We have to get out of this open carnage… and Anon won't last much longer without proper care."
"Yeah…" Viper grunted, his boots crunching over debris. "I was thinking the same thing."
"Good. Thank God." A flicker of relief crossed her face. "No one seems to be targeting us specifically yet. I'll scout ahead—find us a place to settle that isn't a death trap."
"Go," Viper approved with a short nod. "Be quick about it."
Brea didn't wait for a second command. She gave a sharp nod and darted forward.
***
"Sir, they've gone."
The report came from Kane, one of the shadows flanking Jericho.
"Good. Thank you for keeping a watch on them, Kane. Now then…" Jericho shifted his attention from his subordinate to the huddle of five figures kneeling before him. "What shall we do with brats like you?"
Behind each prisoner stood a man in black, their weapons glinting with a cold, predatory light as they pressed the steel against sweat-slicked backs.
The apparent leader of the group spat on the ground, his face twisted into a harsh scowl. "Like I said! I'm the son of Barion Lassiter! If you touch me or my friends, I swear to God, I'll make you regret you were ever born!"
"Yes, yes, yes. I know." Jericho squinted, offering a soft, indulgent smile. He nodded slowly, as if gently coaxing a frightened puppy to stop barking. "Your name is Fredrich Lassiter, wasn't it?"
"That's right!"
The young man snarled. He had a sharp, aristocratic chin and sleek brows that framed long, haughty eyes. His hair was slicked back, and his small, pointed nose gave him the look of a pedigree hound. He was a Lassiter—the scion of a man who was a titan in both the halls of parliament and the boardrooms of industry. The Lassiter name was a monolith in the country, casting a shadow over both the public and private sectors. It was a name built on a foundation of staggering wealth and reinforced by scandals so deep that no honest family could have survived them, let alone thrived across generations.
"You have a charming face. You must take after your mother. What was her name again?" Jericho's grin widened, baring his teeth. That trademark gleam flickered in his eyes—the look of a man who had just found a particularly interesting insect to dissect. "Okay, here's the deal, Fred. You saw those three I waved to earlier, right?"
Fredrich's frown deepened, but he gave a subtle, jerky nod. "Yes. What about them?"
"Nothing difficult, really. This is a task even a newborn cub could manage, I should think."
"What?" Fredrich's long eyes narrowed into slits.
"Heh. I like that look. Make sure you show it to them later. Deal?"
"Spit it out already! What the hell do you want?!"
"Kill. I want you to do it."
Fredrich's eyes went wide, his bravado momentarily failing him. His expression was a map of pure confusion and mounting dread. "...Could you say that again?"
"What? Are your ears defective? I said kill." Jericho's voice remained airy, almost light. "Kill those three people I just waved to."
"B-But why?"
"Consider it your mission. Succeed, and I'll grant you your freedom. Fail…" Jericho trailed off, lazily pointing a finger at each of their heads in turn, mimicking the path of a bullet. "Well, you get the drift, right?"
"...You wouldn't dare."
"I would. But if you want my other, more personal reason… I just hate people who wear masks. Ruins the fun when I can't see their reactions."