Chapter 30: Filthy Rat
By the roadside,
Lorna moved her thin, small legs, clutching that red umbrella as she ran forward for her life.
The small yellow figure darted frantically through the crowd on the sidewalk, bumping into several pedestrians and drawing impatient complaints or puzzled glances, but she had no time to care.
"Hey! You brat, watch where you're going!"
A male white-collar worker in a suit was jolted by the collision, spilling half his coffee and staining his expensive shirt cuff; he cursed irritably at Lorna's retreating back.
But Lorna could no longer hear anything. The eyes of those people were like they were looking at food. She wanted to live.
At the intersection, the traffic lights ticked, the red light flashing a countdown.
The crowd surged like a tide under a sea of black and white checkered umbrellas.
Lorna's jarring splash of yellow appeared exceptionally frantic and out of place among them. She was like a frightened little beast, desperately trying to burrow out of this "safe" sea of people.
However, from the corner of her eye, she caught with horror the figures of one, two... even more of those "monsters."
They were not in a hurry, moving as if attending an elegant salon. They trailed her unhurriedly from different directions, their seemingly casual steps gradually compressing and sealing off her escape route.
Their posture was composed, like a group of high-end players enjoying the futile struggles of their prey.
Lorna was forced into a small alley.
It was damp, dark, and smelled of a mixture of garbage and mold.
She was terrified. Tears mixed with cold rain flowed down her face. Her pale skin was flushed unnaturally from the intense running, her brow furrowed in pain, and her lips turned downward in a grievance.
Her limbs felt heavy as lead, but the desire to survive made her run faster.
But those figures lurking in the shadows followed her like shadows themselves.
The alley was not a dead end; there was a straight exit ahead.
At the end, a bright, somewhat blinding white light shone through.
In the halo of light, a black-and-white Police car could be seen parked there.
Two uniformed Police officers were leaning against the car doors, leisurely drinking hot coffee, steam curling up in the cold air.
Under Lorna's wet eyelashes, a light of hope ignited in those eyes.
"Help... help!!" she shouted hoarsely, her voice losing its strength due to fear and exhaustion.
She took a deep breath and used all her strength to scream toward the light, "HELP!!!"
The two Police officers turned their heads at the sound. The slightly older one put down his coffee cup, stepped forward a few paces, and caught the stumbling Lorna.
"Child, are you alright? Calm down. Is someone chasing you?" His voice was soothing, and his gaze swept alertly toward the alley she had come from.
"Y... yes," Lorna panted, her voice tearful.
"There are monsters."
"This is badge HV2563," the younger officer immediately pressed the intercom button on his right chest.
"At the entrance of the alley on the east side of Seventh Avenue, suspected traces of a child trafficking case found. Victim contacted. Requesting backup from nearby units."
"Copy, HV2563. Location confirmed. Backup is on the way. Please ensure the victim's safety." A calm reply came through the intercom.
"Copy." The young officer released the talk button and turned to open the back door of the Police car.
"Don't worry, child. You're safe now." The older officer patted Lorna's trembling shoulder, his tone gentle yet firm.
Lorna watched their orderly actions and listened to the businesslike replies over the intercom; the wariness and fear in her eyes faded slightly.
She nodded, wiped her face with the back of her hand, then stepped on the footboard and struggled into the back seat of the Police car.
The car door closed with a "click."
Outside the car, the older officer gave his younger companion an imperceptible wink.
The two exchanged a knowing smile.
The older officer opened the front door, sat in the driver's seat, and started the engine.
The young officer went around to the other side and quickly sat in the passenger seat.
The Police car started smoothly and drove away from the alley with its roof lights flashing (but without sirens).
At the mouth of the alley, the boundary between light and shadow,
Those few people stood quietly in the darkness, their crimson eyes coldly watching the Police car disappear around the corner.
"That bastard Mike... why is he interfering with our hunt? Who does he think he is!" one person cursed in a low voice.
"The information was clearly provided by him... this isn't right. What is he trying to do?"
"Perhaps we should give him a reminder of what happens to a dirty cop like him without us."
"Shut up!" the man in the lead barked, stopping the commotion from his companions. He turned to look at the person who had been standing silently at the very back of the group.
"Hey, Frank, you're close with Mike. What the hell is he up to?"
The man called Frank slowly raised his head, shadows obscuring most of his face, with only the corner of his mouth curling into a strange arc.
"Yes... of course I know." His voice was calm, even carrying a hint of a smile.
"Then fucking say it!"
"Actually, I'm not close with Mike." Frank took a step forward.
The others were slightly taken aback.
"We," he spread his hands, his gaze sweeping over his companions, "all follow the same 'My Lord'."
A chill climbed up everyone's spines without warning.
"Deacon sends his regards." His right hand suddenly pulled something from the inside of his trench coat.
The leader closest to him, who had just been questioning him, didn't even see what it was. He only felt a coldness in his chest, followed by a bone-deep pain, as if pierced by a branding iron!
He looked down and saw a silver dagger buried in his chest.
No blood flowed from the wound. Instead, it made a "hissing" burning sound. His skin rapidly blackened and carbonized, and golden flames suddenly burst out from the inside!
"Hrr... ugh..." He opened his mouth wide, but only a wheezing, hoarse sound could escape his throat. His crimson eyes quickly dimmed.
In just a few seconds, his entire body disintegrated and turned into a small pile of sparking ash before the horrified eyes of his companions, rustling as it fell to the ground.
The others were dumbfounded, not yet reacting to this sudden betrayal and death.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Several other companions standing beside them struck almost simultaneously! Specially made silver weapons pierced into undefended vitals.
These vampires, who were just planning to hunt others, became "trash" to be cleaned up in the blink of an eye.
Their bodies rapidly burned and collapsed under the power of the holy silver weapons, turning into clumps of charred embers that were scattered by the wind in the alley.
In an instant, only Frank and the few "cleaners" remained in the shadows.
"Truly nonsensical. We were never at the top of the food chain; those hunters are. And we... at least not for now."
Frank frowned, using a piece of red velvet soaked in holy water to carefully wipe the remaining ash from his dagger.
Fortunately, he wore gloves, isolating the minor damage silver weapons dealt to undead creatures.
He put away the dagger and glanced coldly at the rapidly cooling pile of ash on the ground.
"Let Mike have a taste of success. His identity is important."
He turned and walked into the alley, and the others followed silently.
A gust of wind blew through the passage, swirling the unburnt ash and stray sparks with a whistling sound before they finally dissipated completely into the damp evening air.
Inside the car,
Lorna curled up silently by the back door, her forehead against the cold glass, staring blankly at the street scenery rushing past outside.
She used her body to inconspicuously block the view as one small hand quietly lowered, her fingertips groping for the switch on the inside of the car door.
She was calculating, waiting, searching for the most appropriate moment. It couldn't be now; she had to wait until the car was further away, preferably at some chaotic intersection, and then...
She couldn't let the Police take her back to the station.
Once scanned by the system and found to have no identification records, she knew all too well what would happen next.
Those people, those "Lords" in white coats or suits, would appear with high-sounding documents.
Autistic child, schizophrenic patient, carrier of an infectious disease needing isolation... any random excuse could turn her from a "protected person" into an "object requiring special processing."
A child's struggle had always been futile in the face of adult rules and power.
There were no good people in this place—or rather, even if there were, they couldn't help her. She always remembered that.
"Child, do you have any relatives?" Mike in the driver's seat spoke, his voice sounding fairly gentle.
Lorna did not respond; she didn't even move her eyes.
"Home? Do you remember where your home is?"
There was still only silence.
"Tsk, truly pitiful. Looks like an abandoned little snake." The young officer in the passenger seat turned around, his face wearing an expression of sympathy.
(Note: Most reptiles are non-brooding animals; only a few protect their eggs. After the young hatch, they are abandoned to survive entirely independently.)
"Your parents have no idea what a treasure they've lost. Look at this green hair like seaweed..." He reached out, seemingly wanting to touch Lorna.
Lorna curled up slightly to avoid him.
The hand froze in mid-air.
The "sympathy" on the young officer's face slowly faded, and the arc of his mouth became somewhat strange.
Mike in the driver's seat also glanced through the rearview mirror, his expression identical.
Mike turned his head and fished out a brightly wrapped Toffee from the car's storage box, holding it out to Lorna as if coaxing a child, his tone even gentler.
"Want some candy?"
Lorna shook her head.
"Why not?" The young officer's voice also changed its tone.
"At your age, can't you all not refuse Toffee? Come on, don't be shy, take it."
Lorna just shook her head forcefully.
The man's smile finally collapsed completely. He curled his lip, his eyes revealing undisguised disappointment and a hint of... impatient malice.
"Fine," he shrugged, his tone suddenly turning cold.
"I originally wanted us to get along well first."
Before the words finished, there was a soft "click," and the door beside Lorna was locked tight.
Her pupils shrank. Almost simultaneously, a small hand quickly rose, dark green light just about to condense at her fingertips.
Click!
A metal handcuff snapped onto her raised wrist.
The iron edge scraped her tender skin, making her small face turn pale with pain.
The young officer seized the opportunity and yanked her entire person over.
With his other hand, he pulled out a breathing mask connected to a transparent tube and pressed it directly over Lorna's mouth and nose!
"Mmph—!" Lorna's breathing became rapid and hot, her exhaled breath quickly condensing into white mist on the inner wall of the transparent mask.
Her other hand was also roughly twisted behind her back, the wrist snapped into the other ring of the handcuffs.
The man pressed a switch on the side of the mask with his thumb.
Sss—!
A colorless, odorless gas suddenly erupted, filling the inside of the mask.
Lorna held her breath in terror, but the lack of oxygen in her lungs and her body's stress response made it impossible to hold out. Wisps of air with a cloying chemical scent inevitably choked into her windpipe.
"No... please..." Large tears rolled from the corners of her eyes, her voice muffled by the mask, blurry and desperate.
"Oh~ look at this," the young officer leaned in, his wide eyes flashing with a nauseatingly lewd light. He chuckled, his voice trembling with excitement.
"I like it even more... hehehe..."
"It's a deal then," Mike in the driver's seat turned his head coldly to remind him, "I'm first."
"I know, let me have a taste first..."
Before the man could finish his sentence,
"What the fuck? Tom and Jerry?!" Mike exclaimed.
"What's wrong?!" The man in the passenger seat turned, following Mike's gaze toward the front of the car.
In the rain, a tall figure wearing a Tom Cat mask stood in the middle of the road, ignoring the speeding traffic, and raised a disc-shaped launcher to pull the trigger.
Vroom—
The disc left the chamber, drawing a low, flat arc through the rain, hitting the ground and bouncing.
Thud!
A dull impact.
The disc adhered to the center of the Police car's chassis, the magnetic suction device making a soft "click" as it locked tight.
Boom!!
The disc exploded, and highly compressed gas expanded and released in an instant.
The massive impact force was not directed upward, but vented outward and downward!
Beneath the car body, the air was squeezed into a high-pressure cushion, and the immense force shoved upward!
The heavy Police car was directly lifted two or three meters off the ground, briefly suspended in the air.
The four tires of the Police car detached from the hubs and went spinning away.
The car body, losing the support of its tires, fell.
The metal chassis slammed directly onto the asphalt road, making a tooth-grinding scraping sound and trailing a long string of blinding sparks. Its massive inertia made it like an out-of-control metal skateboard, crashing toward the man.
In the rain, he slightly lowered his shoulder, raised his right foot, and met the momentum by kicking the hood!
Bang—!!
Under the clash of immense forces, the heavy Police car body came to a sudden halt. The rear even rose high due to inertia before falling back down, the chassis kissing the ground once more.
Rainwater flowed over the severely deformed car body, washing over the sharp edges of the shattered glass.
Green tilted his head, his gaze piercing through the spiderweb-cracked windshield into the car.
On the floor of the back seat, the small figure with dark green hair lay curled there, motionless.
"Found you."
Chapter 31: The Heavy Truck's Kiss, Calling for Backup
Inside the car,
The dashboard and the shattered center console hissed with choking white smoke, mixed with the smell of blood and burnt plastic.
"This is insane... it's a public place!"
Mike lifted his head from the airbag, his forehead cut by flying glass shards, blood covering half his face.
Through his blood-soaked, blurry right eye, he saw his companion in the passenger seat also dizzily straightening up.
"What's the situation?"
His forehead was split open, and blood flowed down his brow bone, dripping onto the dashboard.
Outside the car, a tall, silent figure walked unhurriedly past the front of the vehicle, heading straight for the back door.
The figure cast a highly oppressive silhouette in the faint light filtering through the broken windows.
"Hey!" Mike shouted hoarsely with all his might, trying to stop him or attract attention, but his voice lacked strength due to the pain.
Green turned a deaf ear to his shout, his footsteps not even pausing.
At the moment they crossed paths,
A thin, small wolf-like shadow pounced in.
In the next second, the Police officer in the passenger seat was pinned to his seat by the small figure's knee strike as wolf claws swung.
Blood sprayed instantly like berries violently crushed.
Mike's eyes widened as he watched his companion's body being easily torn open, internal organs and bone fragments faintly visible.
He hurriedly reached for the holster at his waist.
Squelch—
Two metal wolf claws pierced through the back of his hand holding the gun, sinking into his side along with the gun grip.
"Aaaah!! Fuck!! I'm a cop! Police!!!" his face contorted in pain as he roared hoarsely.
"Oh," Green replied calmly, grabbing the edge of the rear door.
With a tooth-aching sound of metal tearing, the entire door was ripped off raw.
"You..." Mike wanted to say more.
But Laura gave him no chance; another pair of wolf claws traced an arc through the air, slicing open his throat, his windpipe cut and hissing with air leaks.
"Gurgle... gurgle..."
Mike's eyes widened in terror as he tilted his head back, his hands futilely trying to cover the gash on his neck that was gushing warm liquid.
His powerful vitality as an undead kept him from dying immediately, but the massive blood loss was rapidly draining his strength.
He twitched in agony, tremblingly fumbling to open the driver's side door, wanting to roll out, but he was held fast by the seatbelt wrapped around him.
He could only struggle futilely like a fish out of water, his upper body barely leaning out of the car but unable to escape.
Laura ignored him further.
She urgently climbed over the middle seats, wanting to check on Lorna, whom Green had picked up from the rear floor.
But she was too short and could only see Lorna's hanging, wet green hair and thin back.
"She's fine, just knocked out by chemical agents, plus mild malnutrition."
Slap,
Laura grabbed Green's thigh, looking up with her small face wearing the Jerry Mouse mask, staring at him without blinking, her eyes pleading.
"I know," Green looked down at her, a hint of helplessness flashing in his eyes.
"Do I look like someone who doesn't keep his word? I said I would take her."
Only then did Laura let go, her gaze turning to the driver's seat of the Police car, where the half-dead Mike was still futilely squirming under the seatbelt.
Green walked over carrying Lorna, lifted his foot, and used the tip of his shoe to flip Mike's face-down body over.
"Deputy Chief Mike Jobs, just a few days ago I saw you on the news busting a large-scale child trafficking case. Wow~ you looked so dashing standing on that podium,
how is it that now you've become the kind of most shameful, lowly ringleader you spoke of?"
Green's voice sounded exceptionally clear in the rain, carrying undisguised mockery.
Mike lay on the ground, the wound in his throat causing every word he spoke to be accompanied by blood foam.
"George... George... he... will die tonight..." His eyes were unfocused, his voice intermittent.
"Oh?" Green raised an eyebrow.
"Is this a deathbed confession? Or self-redemption?"
"No..." Mike suddenly seemed to have a terminal lucidity, struggling to sit up, splitting his blood-filled mouth into a venomous sneer.
"You... won't... make it! Haha... cough..."
"His mind is completely corrupted by the Cursed Blood, the stinking rat."
Green reached out and choked his neck, lifting his entire body off the ground.
Mike's feet left the ground, kicking futilely.
Just then, a heavy truck fully loaded with cargo, its piercing headlights shining, came roaring down the adjacent lane at high speed, not slowing down at all for the accident scene ahead.
"Then go die."
With a swing of his arm, Green casually tossed Mike into the path of the oncoming truck.
Bang—!!!
There was no scream, only an instantaneous collision of flesh and steel.
The heavy truck's massive body didn't hesitate for a moment as it whistled past.
The gale at the rear of the truck whipped up the rain and a few drops of blood that splattered far away.
On the ground, only a long, sticky, mangled dark red mark crushed by the wheels remained, quickly being washed and diluted by the growing rain.
Green retracted his gaze expressionlessly.
He pulled out his phone, raindrops pitter-pattering on the screen.
The surrounding traffic carefully bypassed the scrapped Police car and that startling 'mark' on the ground, like water avoiding a reef.
He stepped out, crossing the temporarily stalled traffic toward the opposite side of the street.
Laura followed closely behind him, her small figure looking silent and determined under the rain and headlights.
As Green walked, he quickly dialed a number on his phone and brought the receiver to his ear.
When the call connected, the first thing heard wasn't a human voice, but a dense exchange of gunfire, the sound of breaking glass, and faint shouting and cries of pain.
"Uh... hello?"
Green's footsteps paused for a moment, a bit confused.
He was sure this was the handwritten number on the business card Matt Murdock had left.
He subconsciously looked up at the sky; night had fallen, the lights were coming on, and the rain reflected a blurred halo in the neon.
Right... understood.
It was dark; 'Matt Murdock' was off the clock, and 'Daredevil' was on duty.
"What is it?! I'm a bit busy here!"
Matt's voice finally came through the receiver, the background noise still filled with intense fighting; his speech was extremely fast, carrying the breathlessness and impatience of combat.
"Then can you pause your pursuit of justice for a moment and go save someone first?"
Green didn't waste words, cutting straight to the point, intending to have him repay the favor he owed now.
"What do you think?!" the other side practically roared back.
"Do I look like I can pause?!"
Immediately after, a sharp whistling sound of breaking air came through the receiver—it was an RPG rocket.
Boom—!!!
The massive explosion almost ruptured his eardrums, followed by the piercing busy tone of a disconnected signal.
"Beep, beep, beep..."
Green expressionlessly took the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen.
Fine.
He wasn't in a hurry, just as he reached the eaves of a closed shop.
He shifted Lorna, who was wrapped in his trench coat, higher; her small head rested against his chest, her breathing weak and steady, her body barely moving, like an exquisite oversized doll.
Green freed one hand, pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket, shook out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, then fumbled to stick the filter into the small gap reserved under his mask.
He flicked a lighter with a "click," the orange flame dancing against the rain and neon, lighting the cigarette.
He took a deep drag, white smoke curling up from the gaps in the mask and both ends of the cigarette.
Using this brief pause, his other hand skillfully lifted the Disc Launcher hanging from his tactical belt and checked it.
At that moment, Laura, who had been quietly following behind, darted behind him like a nimble kitten, reached into the gear bag behind his waist, pulled out a replacement disc, and handed it to him.
Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, naturally leaning her body against his broad back.
She rested her chin on his shoulder, her eyes quietly watching Lorna's sleeping profile in Green's arms.
Her brow was furrowed, her slightly parted lips were a bit dry, and tear stains remained on that pale little face.
She leaned against Green's chest without any defense, as if she had found the only harbor she could dock in.
"Is this matter urgent?!" On the other end of the phone, the background noise seemed to have moved; the fighting had subsided slightly, but Matt's voice was still tense, his breathing not yet settled.
"Is saving lives ever not urgent?" Green countered.
"The people to be saved are NYPD Chief George Stacy's family, located at 412 Maple Avenue, Forest Hills, Queens.
Maybe if you're any slower, tomorrow's morning news headline will be 'Enraged NYPD Conducts Full Sweep of Hells Kitchen to Investigate Chief's Family Massacre.' Good luck."
Green liked to control information.
Not only was George investigating him, but he also possessed enough information about the Chief, including the fact that he had left work early today to make it up to his family; at this moment, all three of them should be at home.
Having said that, he hung up directly.
He then switched to another number and dialed again; Laura reached out her small hand to hold the phone for him, pressing it to his ear.
Meanwhile, Green's free hands aligned the disc with the launch channel and gave it a gentle push.
With a "click," the latches on both ends popped out, precisely embedding into the grooves; the installation was complete.
On the disc's surface, a ring of photonic patterns instantly lit up with a faint blue light; this was the "Airburst/Disarm" mode, usually used by S.H.I.E.L.D. to non-lethally paralyze vehicle or machinery power.
But Green's fingers didn't stop.
He twisted the safety bolt on the side of the disc; with a subtle "click," the indicator arrow shifted by one notch.
Hum—
The light of the photonic patterns on the disc's surface suddenly changed from blue to red.
Explosion mode, activated.
"Beep... what is it?" The call connected, and a capable, slightly raspy young female voice came from the other side, with the faint sound of keyboard clicking in the background.
"Clear everything within a one-kilometer radius of me that can connect to the internet—cameras, dashcams, even clips passersby might upload to social media.
Dear Skye, I believe with your curiosity, you must be 'watching' my side right now, so get to work."
"The commotion you've made this time is too big; just the eyewitness accounts are enough to profile your physique, movement habits, and even some of your gear!"
"That's my business; you do what you need to do." Green raised the Disc Launcher, aimed it at the Police car, and pulled the trigger.
Hum—shoo!
The disc trailed a faint dark red light trajectory, accurately attaching itself to the charred car body.
Immediately following,
Boom—!!
An explosion far more violent than the previous airburst.
The compressed high explosives were released instantly, and the entire Police car wreckage turned into an expanding fireball that soared into the sky.
The scorching airwave, mixed with rain, expanded violently outward, instantly evaporating a large patch of standing water on the nearby ground.
The flames struggled for a moment in the rain before being quickly extinguished, leaving only a pile of even more twisted, charred metal junk emitting billowing thick smoke and a pungent odor.
"...Could you make an even bigger scene?" Skye's speechless voice came through the receiver.
"Remember to call the relevant departments and have them tow away this pile of trash," Green lowered the launcher and flicked the cigarette ash with his other hand, his tone even carrying a bit of hypocritical concern.
"Oh dear, obstructing public traffic really makes my conscience uneasy~"
"Tch." A short sneer came from the other side, and then the communication was cut off.
"Let's go." Green hung the launcher back on his waist and casually supported Laura's little bottom as she leaned on his back.
But his gaze seemed to inadvertently glance upward, as if he could capture something through the layers of rain.
"Mm..." Laura gave a barely audible soft response, her legs subconsciously tightening a bit.
Under the fearful and dodging gazes of a few scattered passersby, the three of them turned into a dimly lit alley nearby, their figures quickly swallowed by the thickening rain and deep night.
Shifting the perspective upward to the corner of a high-rise rooftop,
A tall Black man dressed in a black leather trench coat and wearing sunglasses stood there, like a part of the night itself.
Rain slid down his tense jawline, his face carrying a hint of hesitation and gravity.
"He saw me..."
His original plan was to follow the lead of Deputy ChiefMike Jobs to find the specific location of the secret gathering held by the vampire leader Deacon.
This meant he needed Mike alive, at least long enough to cough up sufficient intelligence.
But intuition told him that if he had appeared then to try and stop that man, he would have been in a lot of trouble, and might even have died.
"Let's see if anyone comes to check the scene afterward."
The original plan had failed; now he could only settle for the next best thing, hoping the vampire forces would react to Mike's 'accident,' perhaps finding new clues from their clean-up crew.
He silently backed away, his figure merging into the heavy shadows cast by the rooftop water tank and ventilation ducts before vanishing.
Chapter 32: A Warm Family Dinner
"Find that bastard! Motherfucker! He's even busting people for selling loose weight? I'm not finished with him today!"
At an alley entrance, several gang members with cloth bands tied around their heads and faces full of rage charged past, cursing while clutching submachine guns.
Deep inside the alley, behind a mountain of piled-up trash cans,
Matt Murdock tiredly removed his iconic pointed-ear cowl.
He raised his hand and used his thumb to press hard against one nostril, tilting his head to blow out the accumulated blood from the other, which splattered against the damp brick wall.
He then pinched the bridge of his nose and gave it a forceful twist, barely resetting the nasal cartilage that had been knocked out of place.
"Ngh—!" A suppressed groan escaped from his throat.
He quickly pulled several small wads of medical cotton from a tactical pouch at his waist and stuffed them haphazardly into his mouth, pressing them against the junction of his gums and nasal cavity to stop the bleeding.
Raindrops slid down his unshaven chin, mixing with sweat and blood.
But he didn't have time to carefully tend to his injuries.
He pulled out his specially made, shockproof and waterproof phone, his fingers trembling slightly from pain and urgency as he quickly dialed a number.
The line connected with a "beep—".
"Jessica, it's me." Matt's voice was kept very low and his speech was rapid.
"There's a force trying to harm an important police figure, George Stacy. You can fly for short periods, so you have the best mobility.
I need you to head to 412 Maple Avenue, Forest Hills, Queens immediately. Repeat, 412 Maple Avenue, Forest Hills, Queens.
You must hurry! This message was passed by Green Morgan. I think you're quite familiar with him. After you handle this, he'll come looking for you."
Just as he finished speaking, the faint sound of gang members talking drifted in from the alley entrance.
"...I think I heard something?"
"That's it, don't be the late rabbit, Jessica!" Matt added a final urgent remark before immediately hanging up and stuffing the phone back into his tactical pouch.
He took a deep breath, donned his half-face cowl again, picked up his blind cane from the ground, and gripped both ends, giving it a forceful twist.
Click!
The blind cane split in the middle, turning into two short sticks connected by a tough, high-fiber metal wire—instantly becoming a non-lethal but bone-breaking nunchaku-style weapon.
Behind him, on the other side of the trash pile, the sound of footsteps treading through puddles became clear and cautious, approaching with wariness.
"I really think I need to supplement some Vitamin A when I get back..." Matt muttered to himself in self-deprecation, rolling his aching shoulders and wrists.
In the next second, he suddenly flipped backward over the trash pile.
Boom! Bang! Rat-tat-tat!
The sounds of fighting, gunfire, roars, and metal clashing suddenly exploded within the narrow, damp alleyway.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the trash cans and mottled walls, only to be swallowed again by the even thicker darkness and the curtain of rain.
On the other side, in a cheap apartment somewhere in Queens,
On a messy large bed, Jessica Jones, who had been hungover all night with her hair in a disarray, was forcibly yanked from a deep sleep by the urgent ringing of her phone.
With sleepy eyes and a look of utter confusion, she blankly held up the phone to her ear.
A few seconds of silence followed.
Jessica blinked her half-closed eyes.
"Huh???"
...
Night, at the Stacy residence,
Warm yellow light filled the living room and open kitchen.
Exquisite dishes were already set out on the dining table.
Vibrant cherry tomato salad, perfectly seared herb salmon, thinly sliced Italian roasted sausage, and a basket of garlic bread with a crispy crust.
The air was filled with a blend of aromas, exuding the warmth of home.
George Stacy, wearing thick heat-resistant gloves, carefully pulled a large roasting pan out of the household oven.
Inside were pork ribs roasted until the surface was caramelized and sizzling with oil. The heat, mixed with the sweet scent of fruitwood smoke and sauce, wafted toward him.
"This electric oven roast just can't match the aroma of fruitwood charcoal in the backyard after all."
He examined the results, clicking his tongue in slight dissatisfaction.
"Who told you to leave the fruitwood you bought last time in the shed without covering it? It's all damp."
Helen walked out carrying a large bowl of vegetable salad, smiling as she patted her husband's sturdy shoulder.
"Next time, I'll definitely give you a chance to perform your 'Stacy Secret Ribs' properly, how about that, Sheriff George?"
"Alright, whatever you say, Mrs. Stacy." George took off the oven mitts and chuckled, pleasant crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes.
"Gwen—!" Helen called toward the stairs.
"Come down for dinner!"
"Coming, Mom," came her daughter's clear response from upstairs.
A few seconds later, Gwen walked down the stairs in her slippers. Her long blonde hair still carried the damp moisture from her recent bath, emitting a faint scent of lemongrass body wash.
"It seems you really like that... uh, special 'gift' Green gave you." George sliced the ribs and plated them, his gaze sweeping over his daughter's fair neck.
There, hanging from a thin black leather cord, was a uniquely shaped pendant.
A bullet coin, carefully wrapped and sealed in a rubber ball.
Under the warm yellow light, the reflection of metal and rubber looked somewhat out of place, yet it had strangely become the only accessory over Gwen's simple pajamas.
Gwen subconsciously raised her hand, her fingertips lightly touching the cool rubber ball.
"They... it seems no one is back across the street yet?"
She didn't respond directly to her father's words, but her gaze involuntarily drifted toward the window, to the new neighbor's house opposite theirs.
At the moment, the windows were pitch black, standing silent in the night and the drizzle.
"Reporters are always busy."
George smiled, picking up a dinner knife and skillfully carving the ribs. The blade sliced through the crispy charred skin and tender connective tissue with an inviting "shrr-shrr" sound, as rich juices dripped onto the plate.
"They're like the eyes and ears that are everywhere in the city. You should try to get to know this somewhat mysterious new neighbor."
"He... is indeed very mysterious." Gwen pulled out a chair and sat down, her gaze still lingering with a hint of distraction.
"It seems our little Gwen has a very good impression of this Mr. Green Morgan."
Helen placed the salad bowl in the center of the table, looking at her daughter with gentle teasing.
"Alright, Mom..."
Gwen lowered her head and facepalmed helplessly. For some reason, her cheeks and earlobes began to burn uncontrollably, as if they were inflamed.
Helen and George exchanged a knowing look, smiles on their faces.
"Alright," George, as the head of the household, cleared his throat.
"Time for grace." He wiped his hands, sat up straight, and raised his hands, preparing to hold those of his wife and daughter.
Gwen also looked up and reached out her arms.
However, just as her gaze passed over her father's broad shoulders and inadvertently glanced at the window behind him with its lace curtains,
Outside, under the dim yellow halo of the streetlights, a featureless silver sedan pulled up to the curb outside their house.
The doors opened, and several men dressed in uniform black suits, their heads covered in black cowls that only exposed their eyes and mouths, stepped out.
In their hands... were they holding guns?
"Dad! Outside...!" Gwen instinctively cried out.
George realized something was wrong. The ease on his face vanished, and he frowned, turning his head to follow his daughter's gaze.
He looked right into the barrels of several guns.
"Get down!!!"
Without any hesitation, George lunged to the left, while simultaneously throwing his left arm out to pull Gwen, who was sitting to his left, into his embrace, using his own back to completely shield her from the direction of the window.
At almost the same instant he completed the movement,
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang—!!!
A burst of gunfire, so dense it was almost continuous, suddenly erupted.
Glass shattered, bullets poured in, and the porcelain plates, glass cups, carefully prepared ribs, salad, and sausages on the dining table were blown to bits in an instant.
Food scraps, juices, glass, and ceramic shards mixed with wood splinters, flying in all directions under the impact of the bullets.
The walls were instantly riddled with hideous bullet holes.
The warm light flickered under the broken chandelier, illuminating the sudden hellish scene inside the house in a state of total wreck.
"Gwen! Are you okay?!" George roared in a low voice amidst the wreckage and the pungent smell of gunpowder.
"I'm okay! Dad!" Gwen's voice was trembling.
Only then did George feel slightly relieved, and he immediately turned to look at the other side of the dining table.
His wife, Helen, lay among the scattered food and broken porcelain. A dark liquid was rapidly spreading beneath her, looking as strikingly sharp as a poisoned rose under the warm but broken light.
George's heart seized, nearly stopping!
Ignoring everything else, he let go of Gwen and crawled as fast as he could behind the wall under the window.
Professional instinct made him reach out and tear down the nearby curtain that had been shredded by bullets, attempting to hide his and Helen's position, even though the scrap of cloth was already full of holes.
Outside, the dense gunfire stopped.
The attackers were repositioning, or... they were approaching.
"Helen..."
George saw the two gunshot wounds on his wife's abdomen and right shoulder, as well as the pool of blood rapidly expanding beneath her. His eyes turned bloodshot, and a mixture of rage and agonizing bitterness surged into his throat.
He clenched his teeth, not daring to make any sound that might reveal their position, and quickly pulled off the scarf from his neck, pressing and wrapping it around Helen's wounds with frantic but forceful movements.
The scarf was soon soaked through with warm blood.
Gwen also crawled over. Seeing her mother's condition, she covered her mouth tightly as tears poured out.
"Oh, my God... Mom..."
"Gwen, listen!" George turned his head sharply, his face stained with blood and dust, his eyes appearing stern under the broken light.
"You must take your mother away! Go to the second floor, now! Hurry!"
Gwen was still immersed in massive shock and grief, her eyes somewhat vacant.
"Gwen Stacy!"
George grabbed his daughter's shoulders with such force that she felt pain. His voice was lower now, yet it carried an unquestionable command.
"Now! I need you to stay rational! Your mother needs you! Do you understand?!"
"I... I understand." Gwen was jolted by her father's gaze and tone. She sniffled hard and messily wiped the tears from her face.
Strangely, as her hands touched her mother's faintly heaving body, her tears stopped instantly.
She gritted her teeth, slid her hands under her mother's armpits, and using all her strength, began to drag Helen's heavy body, moving with difficulty toward the stairs leading to the second floor.
George watched his daughter's slight frame dragging his wife, struggling forward through the mess, watching the lengthening trail of blood. His breathing became heavier and more rapid.
Bloodshot veins filled his eyes, and the muscles on his face twisted and twitched uncontrollably from extreme rage and grief.
He bared his teeth, his jaw muscles bulging, looking like a furious Beast.
He forced himself to look away, took a deep breath, and using all four limbs, crawled quickly and silently toward the home's electrical panel in the corner.
Snap!
The main breaker was pulled.
The entire house plunged into darkness instantly, with only the faint glow from the distant streetlights outside barely outlining the shattered silhouettes of the furniture.
Chapter 33: Indoor Skirmish
Outside the house.
The several attackers who had walked to the front door saw the lights inside suddenly go out. They all paused in unison, and the one in front slowly withdrew his hand from the doorknob.
The leader made a hand gesture.
The group immediately changed their strategy, abandoning the plan to storm through the front door.
Using the shadows of the house and trees for cover, they silently circled to the side.
The window glass had already shattered during the previous barrage.
One man used a hand clad in a tactical glove to slowly pull back the curtain, and the others followed him through the broken window one by one.
A pot of Geraniums sat on the windowsill; its delicate petals were brushed by their clothes, swaying slightly in the darkness.
They landed on the glass-strewn floor of the living room with light movements, quickly fanning out into a single-file search formation.
The leader signaled, and the tactical flashlights under all their gun barrels lit up. They skillfully pulled down the Night Vision Goggles on their helmets, and their vision turned a ghostly green.
The leader signaled again, and two men behind him immediately detached from the main squad, moving toward the stairs with very light footsteps.
The nearest police backup would take at least ten minutes, but that was just the predicted time.
Considering George Stacy's status as Police Chief, it was highly likely that an emergency alarm system connected directly to the station was installed in the house.
They had to complete the kill and evacuate within five minutes.
Once George was dead and the Chief position became vacant, with their maneuvering and Mike Jobs' seniority, his succession would be virtually guaranteed.
At that point, New York's policing system would indirectly fall under their control.
Just as the main squad held their guns, preparing to search the other rooms on the first floor—
Ding!
In the corner of the living room, the household oven suddenly emitted a crisp completion chime.
Several attackers subconsciously turned to look. In the green vision of their NVGs, they could see several familiar shapes through the oven's glass window.
Portable Flamethrower Fuel Tanks were sitting on the rotating rotisserie rack, bulging from the residual heat.
"Shit!"
Boom—!!!!
The oven door was blown off by the massive internal pressure!
The violent explosion, mixed with the ignited fuel tanks, turned into an expanding ball of orange-red fire that suddenly erupted in the center of the living room!
The searing airwave slammed into the caught-off-guard men.
"Argh—!"
They were thrown back with screams, crashing heavily against walls and furniture, as the beams from their tactical flashlights danced wildly in the air.
Almost at the same instant the explosion's fire appeared, George Stacy suddenly stood up from behind the sofa, a Double-Barrel Shotgun in his hands.
An attacker who had been blown to his feet by the airwave didn't even have time to get up.
Bang—!!!
The Buckshot was fired at point-blank range.
The attacker's head burst instantly like a smashed watermelon; red and white matter mixed with bone fragments splattered across the floor.
Click!
With a flick of George's hand, the shotgun's barrel broke open, and the smoking empty shells popped out.
Without even looking, his other hand had already pulled two large red Buckshot shells from his waist and loaded them into the chambers, snapping the gun shut with force!
Turn, aim!
Another attacker, who had just crawled up from the floor and was dazed by the explosion, was staring right at George's ferocious face.
Bang—!!!
The second head exploded on cue!
The headless corpse swayed and slumped to the ground.
Double kill!
"Fuck you!!! I'm the goddamn Chief!!! Come on! You bastards!!!"
George roared as he dropped the empty Double-Barrel Shotgun, bent down to snatch the Assault Rifle from the first corpse at his feet, and pulled the bolt with one hand, clicking it into full-auto mode!
Then, without even aiming, he held the trigger down, sweeping the area with fire!
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—!!!
The violent gunfire tore through the silence of the night once more!
The muzzle flash leaped frantically in the darkness; the TV screen was shattered, the walls were riddled with new bullet holes, and wood chips and stuffing from the furniture flew everywhere!
The remaining attackers were stunned by this unreasonable counterattack and scrambled to roll behind cover.
Even their 'immortal' bodies were just as fragile in the face of absolutely lethal damage like a headshot.
And at this moment, none of them dared to gamble on who would be first.
"Fuck! The intel didn't say this guy could fight like this!!"
An attacker hiding behind the wreckage of the dining table couldn't help but shout, his voice cracking.
He wasn't the leader; the leader's head had been blown apart by George's shotgun in the first encounter.
"I hear you, asshole!!"
George performed a swift tactical slide, sliding directly to the side of his cover! The black muzzle of the Assault Riflewas aimed right at him.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—!!!
A string of bullets burrowed into his body, and blood blossoms burst across his chest one after another like crushed berries.
Warm liquid splattered across the wooden display shelf behind him, instantly staining Gwen's childhood trophies and photos red.
"Ugh..." He didn't even have time to scream before he slumped to the ground.
The other attackers took the chance to return fire. Bullets whizzed past George, hitting the floor and walls, kicking up debris.
But George quickly rolled to the body of the attacker he had just killed.
With one hand, he continued to use the rifle for suppressive bursts in their general direction, while the other hand quickly snatched a spare magazine from the corpse's waist, completing a one-handed reload.
At the same time, he hooked the Double-Barrel Shotgunhe had thrown down earlier toward him, pinning it with his knee and body. He pulled two Buckshot shells from his pocket, reloading the shotgun while leaning over to reload the rifle.
Squelch—
Just then, George felt a sudden chill in his side, followed by pain piercing his nerves.
"What?!" He instinctively looked down.
A Tactical Dagger was buried deep in his body, the hilt held by a hand in a black tactical glove.
And the owner of that hand... was the very attacker he had thought was dead at his feet.
The attacker lay on his back, the bullet holes in his chest still seeping blood, yet he was smiling, his mouth full of bloody foam.
"Hey... Chief... this... won't kill me."
George's pupils shrank.
He only then noticed that the blood flow from the man's gunshot wounds was abnormally low, and the muscles at the edges of the wounds seemed to be writhing and contracting extremely slowly.
"What kind of... monster are you!"
George grabbed the other's wrist, trying to stop the dagger from being pushed deeper or twisted.
However, even though this enemy appeared heavily wounded and weak, the strength coming from his wrist was as strong as, or even stronger than, a fit man in his prime.
Meanwhile, the wound in his side was bleeding out fast. His strength was fading along with the warm blood, and dizziness and weakness began to set in.
The other attackers, having regained their composure, noticed George's decline and raised their guns as they approached him...
Upstairs,
Gwen pushed a heavy solid wood desk behind the bedroom door to block it firmly.
She carefully pushed her mother, Helen, under the bed and used clothes pulled from the closet to try and wipe away the bloodstains on the floor.
She herself stood barefoot against the cold wall, her trembling hand reverse-gripping a handmade letter opener.
Her white nightgown, stained with her mother's blood, clung to her body. Cold sweat had already soaked her back and the hair on her forehead.
Sweat beads rolled down her still somewhat baby-fat cheeks, gathering at her chin and dripping onto her clean toes, blooming into a small dark patch on the wooden floor.
She tilted her head, one ear almost pressed against the wall, while her eyes watched the shadow under the door, catching the low, gradually approaching footsteps outside.
Her lips were pressed white, and she couldn't stop shivering.
She was terrified, so she had to fight back.
However, the expected violent ramming of the door did not happen.
Rat-tat-tat-tat—!!!
A hail of bullets suddenly pierced through the wooden door.
Wood chips and paint fragments sprayed like hail.
Immediately after, a cylindrical object was tossed in through the hole, rolling into the center of the room with a clatter.
It wasn't a grenade; it was a smoke bomb.
Hiss—!!!
Pungent, acrid white smoke instantly billowed from the canister, quickly filling the entire room!
"Cough! Cough—!" Gwen was caught off guard. Violent coughs burst from her mouth, and tears and mucus instantly surged out from the irritation, blurring her vision.
Just as she bent over coughing, the bedroom door was kicked open brutally.
A tall figure carrying a gun and wearing a Gas Maskrushed in through the thick smoke.
The few close-quarters combat techniques her father had taught her flashed through Gwen's mind.
Enduring the coughing and the sting in her eyes, she arched her body and lunged toward the blurry dark shadow!
One hand fumbled and touched the other's tactical vest, confirming his position.
The other hand, holding the knife, used every ounce of her strength to stab toward where she remembered the human neck to be!
"Ah—!" A grunt of pain came from under the Gas Mask.
The strike was precise; the tip of the knife slashed the collar of the tactical suit and cut through the skin and the carotid artery beneath.
Warm liquid instantly sprayed onto Gwen's hands and face!
But the knife was too small and the wound wasn't deep enough to be a fatal blow.
"Bitch!" The attacker, in pain and rage, raised his foot and kicked Gwen in the stomach!
"Ugh—!" Gwen let out a short, muffled groan as she was sent flying like a broken kite, crashing heavily onto the floor.
"Ah... cough..." She curled into a ball, clutching her abdomen. Her vision was darkening, yet she still struggled, trying to prop herself up with her knees.
"You're a tough nut, just like your damn father! Why can't you just die quietly?"
The attacker, clutching his bleeding neck, strode forward. The muzzle of his gun was pressed directly against Gwen's forehead. The cold sensation made her entire body freeze.
"Go to hell!"
"Am I... going to die?"
Gwen's eyes were somewhat vacant, her pupils dilating slightly in the dim light.
In her mind—strangely, somehow—what kept surfacing wasn't her parents' faces, or her warm home, or even the thrilling slaughter that just took place...
It was the pair of eyes she had seen by the window this morning.
Calm, deep, and carrying a distant, icy sense of detachment that she couldn't understand.
The pendant hanging at her chest swayed gently with her weak breathing and the trembling of her body.
That 'lucky gift' from the mysterious neighbor.
The edge of darkness seemed to be creeping up bit by bit, about to swallow her.
However, at that moment, the light from the streetlamp outside suddenly dimmed without warning!
A rapidly growing shadow covered the window!
The three people in the room were drawn to this anomaly almost simultaneously, instinctively looking up at the window.
"Who's there?!" The other attacker who had rushed into the room also sensed something was wrong and quickly turned his gun.
Boom—Crash—!!!
The thick double-pane window, along with the frame, was smashed inward from the outside!
"Hah!"
A lithe figure, carrying the night wind and rain, burst through the shattered window.
The figure landed and, without a moment's pause, delivered a clean, sharp leg sweep to the first attacker's shin!
Crack! A clear sound of bone fracturing.
"Ah—!" The attacker screamed, lost his balance, and fell forward.
The figure used the momentum for an agile forward roll, dodging the trajectory of the bullets fired hastily by the other attacker.
During the roll, her hand reached out and brushed past the first attacker's waist sheath, drawing a Tactical Daggerwith a'shing'.
Her body sprang up, and with a reverse grip on the dagger, she stabbed it fiercely into the second attacker's side!
"Ugh!" The second attacker cried out in pain, doubling over.
The figure didn't stop, grabbing the doubled-over attacker to use him as a shield between herself and the first attacker who was struggling to crawl up.
At the same time, her other hand had already pulled out the dagger and, using the momentum of her lunge, stabbed it downward into the first attacker's eye socket.
The tip of the dagger pierced the eyeball, went deep into the skull, and gave a violent twist!
The first attacker's remaining eye widened suddenly, then quickly lost all life, and he slumped down.
"Phew—" The figure only then slowly stood straight, flicking the blood and unidentifiable tissue off the dagger.
Only now could she be seen clearly.
A woman wearing a worn black leather jacket and faded tight jeans.
A grey scarf was haphazardly wrapped around her neck, and messy dark brown hair covered part of her face, revealing only a pair of somewhat irritable eyes.
She looked like a typical blue-collar woman or unemployed person struggling at the bottom of society, with a bit of a temper.
In fact, her life was indeed like that.
She didn't even look at the attacker she had used as a shield, who was now groaning in pain with several extra bullet holes in him.
She casually picked up the rifle dropped on the floor, felt for a spare magazine on him, ejected the empty one, and loaded the new one.
"Please... I beg you..." The dying attacker on the floor struggled to reach out, making a weak plea for mercy.
The woman glanced down at him. She raised the rifle and aimed the muzzle at his head.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The groans stopped abruptly.
A thick pool of blood spread rapidly across the clean, cozy floor of the girl's bedroom, staining the light-colored wood and scattered plush toys with striking blotches.
Jessica then turned around, looking at Gwen, who was staring at her with wide eyes, both terrified and bewildered.
"Ah—sorry,"
Jessica raised a hand and irritably smoothed her messy hair. Her voice carried a distinct rasp and nasality from a lingering hangover, and her tone was even a bit dismissive.
"I messed up your floor. I've still got a bit of morning crankiness, so I might have been a little too rough. I'm Jessica Jones."
"It's... it's okay." Gwen clutched her aching stomach and shook her head with effort.
She looked at this woman who had suddenly appeared, with a face full of impatience and cold beauty (or perhaps decadence), her mind in a complete mess.
However, Jessica's next sentence miraculously calmed Gwen's terrible state of mind.
"Don't worry, that scumbag Green sent me."
Chapter 34: Why Are You Crashing Into My Front End?
"Mr. Green...?" Gwen froze for a moment. Hearing that name in such a desperate situation felt surreal.
"Yeah, maybe that guy will think better of me because of this... though it's unlikely," Jessica muttered.
She bent down to scavenge gear from the attacker's corpse on the floor, pulling off a flashbang and gripping it in her hand.
After speaking, she didn't even look at Gwen. She walked straight to the bedroom door, which was riddled with bullet holes, and raised her foot.
Bang!
The already teetering door was kicked open, leaving a large gap.
She pulled the pin on the flashbang and, without even peeking, tossed it casually through the gap toward the downstairs living room.
Immediately after, she turned her back to check the bolt and ammo of her rifle as she headed downstairs.
Boom—!!!
A blinding white light and a deafening roar exploded downstairs almost simultaneously, followed by several short, agonized screams.
As Jessica walked down the stairs, she saw George Stacybeing pinned to the ground by several attackers who were trying to beat him to death.
With an expressionless face, Jessica quickly lowered her shoulder, assuming a standard close-quarters shooting stance.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Two to the torso, one to the head.
However, just as she swung her muzzle to deal with the next one, a round object rolled out from a dark corner of the living room, landing right near her and George.
It was a grenade!
"Fuck!" Jessica's pupils constricted as she cursed.
Without any hesitation, acting almost on instinct, she grabbed the collar of the semi-conscious George on the floor and dragged him as she lunged toward the nearby dining room.
Boom—!!!
The grenade exploded! A searing blast wave and shrapnel swept through the area.
The corpses of the attackers where George had been lying were instantly blown to pieces, turning into a mist of blood and shredded flesh that splattered across the walls and ceiling.
A large crater was blasted into the wooden floor, sending wood splinters flying in all directions.
Thud! Clang!
Jessica and George slammed into the dining table and then tumbled to the floor.
"My freshly dry-cleaned coat! That cost me ten fucking dollars!"
Jessica's first priority wasn't checking her injuries; instead, she looked down at the new grease stains, blood, and tears on her old leather jacket, her face full of heartache.
Only then did she seem to remember something. She turned her head to look at George, whose face had been beaten into a swollen mess.
"Still alive," she observed, confirming he was still breathing.
With that, she forcefully overturned the sideways dining table, using it as a temporary barricade in front of them.
Resting the rifle's muzzle on the edge of the table, she vigilantly scanned the wreckage of the living room, which was filled with smoke and dust from the explosion.
It seemed there were still some attackers lurking in the shadows among this group.
"Hmm?"
Just then, out of the corner of her eye, Jessica spotted a figure standing outside next to that silver sedan.
The figure was unhurriedly hoisting a long, tubular object from the car onto his shoulder, aiming it toward the house.
It was an RPG launcher.
"Oh, fuck!" Jessica's mouth twitched, and she couldn't help but curse under her breath.
This was supposed to be Queens, a safe, middle-class neighborhood, right? Why did it feel like she was back in that lawless hellhole, Hells Kitchen?!
The man outside carrying the RPG seemed to sense Jessica's gaze. He glanced inside through the broken window, a cruel arc curling his lips.
"Sorry, pal. Just do me a favor and die with the people inside."
His index finger pressed toward the trigger.
However, at the very moment he was about to fire, two bright beams of light suddenly shone from the street to his right.
He instinctively turned his head and squinted, his hand movement pausing for a split second.
Through a vision blurred by rain, he saw a black pickup truck.
The engine let out a beastly roar as it tore through the water-logged road at a frantic speed far exceeding the city limit, trailing a long mist of water as it charged straight at him.
The front of the truck was aimed directly at him, with no intention of slowing down or swerving.
"No..." The cold confidence on his face instantly turned into extreme terror.
Bam!
The man carrying the RPG was deformed and lifted off the ground, tracing a long parabola of blood mist through the air. He flew over twenty meters before slamming heavily into another family's fence!
His body had partially disintegrated in mid-air. Parts mixed with organ fragments fell like a brief, bloody rain, splattering onto the wet street and lawn.
Screeech—!!!
The pickup truck screeched to a halt under the inertia of the impact, tires smoking as it stopped right in front of the Stacy family's yard.
The driver's side door opened.
Green Morgan bent down and climbed out.
He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. The rain had soaked his hair, making it limp and plastered against his scalp and forehead.
Rainwater slid down the cold, hard lines of his face. Coupled with his height of over two meters, he looked less like a rescuer and more like a "thug" looking for trouble.
He took a drag of the cigarette, then held it between his fingers.
"If you fucking blow up the house, where the hell am I supposed to get free meals in the future?!"
This style and tone made one momentarily wonder if he was actually the mastermind behind this assassination attempt.
After shouting, he didn't even look at the pile of "parts" on the ground. Cigarette in mouth, he walked straight to the Stacy family's front door.
He raised his foot—
Bang!!!
The door panel, along with part of the frame, was kicked inward, exploding into flying fragments. Wood splinters scattered everywhere.
Gripping the remaining door frame, his tall frame bent slightly as he stepped over the threshold into the messy living room.
A dumbbell, originally used for exercise, happened to roll to the edge of his mud-stained boots.
"Hmm?" Green stopped, looked down at the dumbbell by his feet, then looked up to scan the room's battlefield-like scene.
His gaze finally landed on an attacker crouching dazed next to the living room's TV cabinet.
"Are you... reinforcements?" The attacker asked tentatively, hesitating at Green's "stay away" aura.
Green didn't speak.
He hooked the dumbbell with his foot, caught it in one hand, weighed it, and began walking slowly toward the man.
Behind him, the light from the streetlamps shining through the shattered door and windows cast his tall, burly silhouette onto the floor and walls.
As he advanced, the shadow continuously elongated and expanded like a living darkness, rapidly spreading toward the attacker until it swallowed him in shade.
"Hey! Say something!" The attacker finally sensed something was wrong, a chill racing up his spine.
He raised his gun with forced bravado, aiming it at the man who was stepping out of the shadows and toward him.
He could only vaguely see the flickering red glow of a cigarette at the man's mouth and a trail of wet footprints on the floor.
Suddenly—
In the attacker's vision, Green's tall figure vanished without warning!
It wasn't a disappearance; he was just too fast!
In the next moment, the attacker felt as if the light in front of him was blocked by a "wall."
Green was already standing less than half a meter in front of him. The pressure radiating from that massive frame was almost suffocating.
He looked up in terror.
What he saw was Green's downward, emotionless, ice-cold gaze, as if he were looking at a pile of dead meat.
And Green's right hand, held high above his head, was tightly gripping that heavy metal dumbbell, the muscle lines of his arm clearly visible under his taut clothing.
That gaze became the final image frozen in the attacker's mind.