The steel door groaned under another heavy impact. THUD. The sound was a physical blow, reverberating through the small, windowless room. Dust and flakes of ancient paint sifted down from the ceiling like morbid confetti. They weren't knocking. They had a battering ram. Or a very determined enforcer with a sledgehammer. The voice from the hallway was a guttural roar, filled with promised violence. "Jiang! We know you're in there! Open the damn door before we weld it shut and cook you inside your new oven!"
Leo's heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, but his mind, cooled by the System's presence, was preternaturally calm. "System, options!" he hissed, snatching his clean, untraceable firearm from the bed and chambering a round with a smooth, practiced motion that was now second nature. The cold, mechanical click-clack was a tiny anchor in the rising tide of panic.
Right. No way out. Only through. The old Leo would have been a sobbing heap, waiting for the end. Viper felt a cold, sharp smile cut across his face. They'd brought the fight to his door. How considerate of them to deliver themselves to him. He quickly stuffed the thick stacks of cash into the inner pockets of his hoodie, the weight a comforting, solid promise of a future he fully intended to have.
He backed into the farthest, deepest corner of the room, the one shrouded in absolute shadow from the single bare bulb overhead. He willed the darkness to cling to him. [Shadow's Embrace] activated, and his vision shifted into a spectrum of muted greys. He felt his form bleed into the wall, his outline dissolving into the crumbling concrete. He became a patch of deeper night, a living void. He held his breath, the gun a cold, steady weight in his hands, his finger resting alongside the trigger guard.
THUD-CRACK. The sound of metal screaming in protest. A final, shattering blow, and the reinforced door shrieked as it was torn from its mangled hinges, crashing inward onto the concrete floor with a deafening clang. Harsh light from the hallway spilled into the small, sparse room, illuminating the empty bed, the bare walls, the seeming emptiness.
Two large men dressed in black leather jackets emblazoned with a coiling green serpent shouldered their way in, crowbars in hand. They were big, all muscle and menace, their faces set in grim, bored masks. Thugs. The cleanup crew, expecting to find a cowering rat.
"Empty?" one grunted, his voice rough as gravel as he nudged the fallen door with his boot.
"Boss said he was here. Check the shitter," the other replied, nodding toward the closed bathroom door with a jerk of his chin.
They fanned out, confident, brutal, their attention already moving past the empty main room. They saw nothing. They didn't see the predator standing three feet away, a part of the shadows themselves.
As the first thug passed his corner, his back momentarily exposed, Leo moved. [Shadow's Embrace] fell away as he struck. He didn't fire the gun; the report in this enclosed space would be suicide, bringing the rest of the building's occupants—and every cop in a five-block radius—down on him. Instead, he reversed his grip on the pistol and brought the heavy polymer butt down on the back of the man's skull with a sickening, definitive thwack. The thug crumpled without a sound, his body slumping to the floor like a sack of meat.
The second man turned at the soft thud, his eyes wide. "Liao? What was—"
Leo was already on him. He drove a fist, hardened by his new physiology and [Pain Threshold], into the man's solar plexus. The blow was devastating, all his weight behind it. The thug's breath exploded out of him in a pained, wheezing gasp, and he doubled over, eyes bulging. Leo didn't give him a second. He grabbed a handful of greasy hair and slammed the man's face into his own rising knee. There was a wet, crunching sound of cartilage and bone giving way. The man went limp, joining his partner on the floor.
It was over in less than five seconds. Two down. Silent. Efficient. Brutal.
**[COMBAT RESULT: 2/2 HOSTILES INCAPACITATED. EXPERIENCE GAINED.]**
**[VILLAINOUS REPUTATION: 'MYSTERIOUS UPSTART' -> 'GHOST' (RUMORS OF YOUR BRUTAL EFFICIENCY ARE SPREADING)]**
Leo didn't pause to savor it. He quickly frisked the bodies, taking a spare magazine from one and a wicked-looking, serrated switchblade from the other. He peered out into the hallway. It was empty for now, but he could hear voices, heavy footsteps echoing from the stairwell. More were coming. A lot more.
He had to move. The System was right; staying meant being cornered. He needed to break out of their cordon. An idea, insane and brilliant, formed in the calculating part of his mind now wired to the System. He dragged the two unconscious thugs further into the room, propping them up against the wall near the bathroom door to make it look like they were covering it. He took the crowbar one of them had dropped.
Then he stepped back into the hallway, pulling the ruined door as closed as it would go. He melted into the shadows again, [Shadow's Embrace] making him a ghost in the dim, urine-scented corridor. He pressed himself into a grimy alcove near the stairwell door and waited, his breathing shallow, his body thrumming with adrenaline.
He didn't have to wait long. Two more Vipers clattered up the stairs, these ones looking more alert, hands hovering near their jackets where weapons were undoubtedly concealed. They saw the breached door.
"Yo! Chen! You got him?" one called out, pushing the broken door open cautiously.
From inside, Leo used the crowbar to knock over a metal chair he'd positioned near the entrance. It clattered loudly against the concrete floor.
The two Vipers exchanged a glance, drew pistols, and rushed in, their focus laser-sharp on the interior. "Chen? Liao? Talk to me!"
The moment they were inside, focused on the bodies of their comrades, Leo emerged from his hiding place. He didn't follow them in. Instead, he grabbed the edge of the broken door and, with a grunt of effort fueled by enhanced strength, shoved it back into the twisted frame, jamming it shut with the crowbar. It was a temporary measure, but it would create beautiful, chaotic confusion.
He heard their immediate shouts of alarm from inside, now trapped. "Hey! The door! What the hell? Open this thing!"
Leo was already moving, flying down the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time, his footsteps silent. He burst out into the alley behind the building, the cool night air hitting his face. A black sedan was parked there, engine running, a driver leaning against the hood smoking a cigarette. The getaway driver.
The man saw him, his eyes going wide with surprise that quickly turned to aggression. He fumbled for something at his waist—a gun, a radio.
Leo didn't give him the chance. He was across the alley in a heartbeat, his [Pain Threshold] allowing him to ignore the burning protest in his legs. He didn't shoot. He didn't need to. He slammed the pistol into the side of the man's head with precise force. The driver's eyes rolled back in his head, and he slid down the side of the car into an unconscious heap.
Leo yanked the driver's door open, shoved the body out onto the pavement, and slid behind the wheel. The car was still running, the dashboard lights glowing. It was almost too easy. He threw it into drive and peeled out of the alley, the tires screeching in protest, the smell of burning rubber filling the air.
He'd done it. He'd turned their ambush into his escape. He'd stolen their car. A laugh, wild and free and tinged with mania, burst from his lips. This was power! This was control! This was—
The euphoria lasted for exactly two blocks.
A new prompt, urgent and blood-red, flashed across the windshield, overlaying the road ahead.
[WARNING: VEHICLE TAGGED.] [TRACKING DEVICE DETECTED. SOURCE: GLOVE COMPARTMENT.]
His blood ran cold, the laugh dying in his throat. Of course. It was a trap within a trap. They'd let him take the car. They were herding him, letting him think he was free while they set up the perfect kill box.
He slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt in the middle of a deserted street. He leaned over, popped the glove box. Inside, amidst greasy napkins and a vehicle manual, was a small, black plastic box with a single, steadily blinking red light. A GPS tracker.
He was a mouse in a maze, and they were watching his every move. Rage, cold and pure and absolute, washed over him. They thought they were so smart. They thought they could play with him.
<Proposal: Utilize tracker. Lead them into an ambush of your own design.>
A map of the city superimposed itself over his vision. The System highlighted a location in the old industrial waterfront: a labyrinth of decaying brick warehouses, narrow, forgotten streets, and plenty of deep, consuming shadows. A perfect hunting ground. His hunting ground.
A vicious grin spread across Leo's face, all teeth and no humor. They wanted to hunt the Viper? Fine. Let them come. He'd give them a show they'd never forget. He'd turn their trap into his feeding ground.
He didn't disable the tracker. He left it blinking, a beacon of false security, a dare. He stomped on the accelerator, the sedan lurching forward. He wasn't running away anymore. He was leading them to the slaughterhouse.
He drove with a terrifying purpose now, heading for the waterfront, the System feeding him data—potential choke points, high-ground advantages, environmental hazards he could exploit. He wasn't just a thug in a stolen car; he was a commander being fed a real-time battlefield schematic.
He reached the designated area, a graveyard of industry. He abandoned the car in the middle of a wide, empty lot between two massive, dark warehouses, leaving the tracker blinking innocently inside. Let them think he was cornered, out of options.
He sprinted into the maze of alleys, his [Shadow's Embrace] making him a fleeting whisper of darkness. He scaled a rusted fire escape, his new strength making the climb effortless, and perched on a rooftop overlooking the lot, a king on a throne of corroded metal. He laid the pistol on the ledge in front of him, his breathing steady. The night was cold and silent, the only sound the distant moan of a foghorn on the bay. He was the trap. And he was ready to spring it.
Headlights cut through the darkness. Two more cars, same make and model as the one he'd stolen, rolled into the lot, their engines purring. They fanned out, boxing his car in. Doors swung open. Six men emerged this time. These weren't thugs with crowbars. They were harder, colder, armed with shotguns and handguns held with professional competence. They were done playing games.
They fanned out, approaching the abandoned sedan with a cautious, tactical precision, their weapons trained on it.
"Where is he?" one of them, a man with a scar cutting through his eyebrow and a face like granite, barked. He was clearly in charge.
This was it. The perfect moment. Leo raised his pistol, the [Firearms Proficiency] making the motion smooth as silk. He lined up the shot on Scarface. One pull of the trigger, and the head of the snake would be gone. Chaos would reign. He could pick the rest off from his vantage point.
His finger tightened on the trigger, the world narrowing to the sight picture.
A hand, strong and unyielding as iron, clamped over his mouth from behind, yanking him backward off the ledge. At the same instant, another hand deftly caught his pistol, preventing the shot and the clatter of it falling.
He was dragged into the deep shadows of the rooftop, completely and utterly overpowered. He struggled, but it was like fighting a statue. His assailant was impossibly, supernaturally strong.
A voice, familiar and smooth as a razor's edge, whispered in his ear, the breath cold against his skin. "I said we were auditioning you. I didn't say you could redecorate the stage without permission."
It was her. The woman from the Silent Hand. She held him immobile, her grip absolute. She released his mouth but kept control of the gun.
Down in the lot, the Vipers were getting antsy. "Spread out! He's here somewhere!"
The woman didn't even look at them. She looked down at Leo, her eyes glinting in the scant starlight, devoid of any emotion but cool assessment. "You have a choice, Viper. My employer is impressed. The initiative. The brutality. But this…" she gestured with his own gun at the scene below, a queen dismissing a messy skirmish, "…is messy. We can clean it up. For a price."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that was more threatening than any shout.
"Or you can try to be the hero of your own little war down there, and we walk away. Let's see how long you last against six shotguns without our help. What's it going to be?"