"You forced me."
Boye's whole body trembled, caught between fear and rage.
"You left me no choice."
His hand shot to his waist with all his strength, gouging four deep scratches across his fat flesh.
A dark muzzle snapped up, aimed squarely at Furl, as Boye roared like a madman.
"You're not walking away either, bitch! You're the one who left me with no way out—this is all your fault!"
"I'd suggest you calm down. If I die, your useless son won't get away either. The boss will skin him alive."
Furl forced a calm front. Boye's son was the leash the gang kept around his neck.
The two scavengers locked in a tense standoff, too consumed to notice the body on the bed.
Arthur's body lay still between them, yellow medicinal fluid still pumping steadily into his veins.
Agonizing pain swept endlessly through his soul, yet it only thrilled him more—
The searing pain in his limbs was bringing sensation back. It felt as if they were regrowing, awareness spreading outward inch by inch along with the pain.
Neither man noticed the dead man's fingers twitch faintly.
Facing Arthur, Furl saw Boye freeze again. Convinced he had cowed him, a trademark smirk crept onto his face.
"Your son—I'll take good care of him. How about that?"
He spread his hands mockingly.
"Leaving a son behind in this world… at least it means you didn't come here for nothing, don't you think?"
Boye stared at Furl's sneer, then abruptly laughed.
The stupidity and panic vanished from his bloated face in an instant, as though replaced by another man.
He yanked Furl's hair, shoving the barrel straight into his throat.
Boye's sudden burst was like a beast lunging from the shadows—once it sank its fangs into prey, it never let go.
He watched coldly as blood frothed from Furl's lips, making him look like a fish flopping on a chopping block.
"You were right about one thing. That bottle of medicine—I switched it."
He jerked his chin, roughly forcing the barrel deeper until the black steel jammed into the bloody flesh of Furl's mouth.
"You see, a man needs weaknesses. Otherwise, nobody believes you're real.
And that son I paraded around? He really was trash."
He studied the gun's position carefully, then nodded with satisfaction.
As Furl's eyes bulged wide, Boye calmly squeezed the trigger.
The large-caliber kinetic pistol erupted, the bullet exploding inside Furl's mouth like a cannon shell.
His skull burst apart, killing him instantly.
Boye grinned Vikiously. To everyone else, how could a man like him dare kill his boss?
It had to be Furl—greedy, treacherous Furl—who had threatened him into sharing the loot, scheming to steal everything from the fat pig before them.
All Boye had to do was pin everything on Furl, and he'd walk free.
On the bed, Arthur watched in silence. With a gun in the man's hand, his chances were slim.
The fat man, face smeared with blood, leered at the corpse, dazed. The pistol was still in his hand, but his grip had slackened.
That gun was Arthur's chance. His weak, frail body couldn't possibly overpower this brute.
Taking the gun was the only option.
Boye basked in his triumph, never imagining the corpse on the bed was silently reaching toward his pistol.
He had chosen that anesthetic himself, certain no one could survive it.
Arthur's existence was the mistake.
Seizing his moment, Arthur lunged, clamping both arms around the fat man's gun hand and dragging him down to the floor.
He used gravity to make up for his weakness—it was the best move he had.
The ambush worked. When Arthur scrambled to his feet, he met the fat man's bewildered eyes.
But Arthur wasn't about to waste words. He drew a pistol from his coat and aimed it.
The man was treacherous, ruthless, decisive—like a viper in the grass.
The best way to deal with a snake was to shoot.
Arthur pulled the trigger, giving him no chance to react.
The recoil jolted him back a step. Even gripping with both hands, sharp pain stabbed through his wrists.
The muzzle had jerked off target, but Arthur fired again without hesitation, whether the first bullet hit or not.
Pain throbbed through his wrists. When he looked back, the fat man's hulking body lay sprawled on the floor. Motionless.
Arthur frowned, clutching the pistol tightly despite the pain.
The man had been facing him head-on when he fired—so why was he lying face-down now?
He couldn't understand why such a powerful pistol hadn't finished him, but he knew one thing for certain: the fat man wasn't dead.
Arthur staggered up, found a waist-high cabinet, and braced the pistol's butt against it.
That would bleed off most of the recoil.
He resolved to empty the magazine. He needed to be sure the bastard was really dead.
Boye lay flat, not daring to move.
The subdermal armor on his chest was shattered, exposing raw flesh and glimpses of bone.
He had spent years saving for that skin under the excuse of his son's tuition—and now it was ruined.
When that pig came closer, he'd crush every bone, carve off every piece of flesh, until his fury was spent.
And if that bastard wasn't dead yet, he'd tear him apart to take his blood back.
All he had to do was wait…
But instead of footsteps, he heard the clang of metal.
A chill crept into Boye's chest. What the hell was that bastard doing?
The next second gave him his answer.
A thunderous gunshot slammed into his back like a cannon. The force crushed him to the floor, snapping every rib in his chest.
Blood poured from his mouth, mixed with chunks of torn flesh and organ. There would be no surviving this.
With his last strength, he rolled his head.
The lanky figure crouched behind the cabinet, half-exposed, smoke still curling from his gun barrel.
Boye had won too many times. So many that even wounded and ambushed, he still believed he'd come out on top.
Because before, he always did.
But some things—you only get one chance to lose.
There was no time for despair. Another bullet came.
Arthur watched it punch into the man's chest, leaving a gaping hole, and finally exhaled.
What kind of monster was this? The third shot—he'd seen it strike his back—hadn't pierced through, just scorched the skin.
And yet the man had still gotten up. Still rolled over.
Arthur wasn't ignorant of this world—he'd been an observer for over twenty years, enough to grasp the basics.
But the body's original owner had been a shut-in, with little knowledge of the world. Naturally, Arthur couldn't know much more.
At least he knew this: it was the year 2076. Less than two centuries since his death.
And the world had become this.
He shook his head, forcing out the chaos, suppressing his weakness.
The only priority now was to get out of this hellhole.
Thanks to the fat man's scheme, the base was empty at this hour. Otherwise, the gunfire would have drawn everyone.
Arthur tucked the gun at his left hip, easy for a quick draw, and staggered out.
Beyond the door stretched a dim corridor. It was night, and the window at the far end spilled in shifting neon light.
Dragging his frail body, he headed that way.
The air reeked of blood, laced with the stench of rot.
The smell alone painted a picture of horrors in the dark.
He descended a narrow staircase, the space suddenly opening into a wide hall.
In the faint ceiling light, he saw rows of beds, each covered in white sheets. From the shapes beneath, none were "empty."
Across the hall stood the exit—a massive alloy door, windowless, radiating heaviness.
The silence pressed in, his footsteps echoing hollowly.
At the door, just as his hand reached for it, a ragged breathing sounded behind him.
It was shrill, like something lodged in the throat, making every breath a struggle.
So there was another survivor here. But in Arthur's state, ignoring it was the smarter move.
His hand hovered near the sensor pad. A touch would open it.
After a long pause…
"Damn it."
Arthur cursed under his breath, then turned and walked toward the sound.
...
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