The celebration of New Willowbrook was in full swing. Music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses filled the air. Marcus had called everyone—friends, allies, even the Death Bringers—to witness the rebirth of the town. Yet, amidst the merriment, Logan felt like a caged storm.
Tired of forced smiles and hollow cheer, he slipped away into the crowded restroom. The moment he entered, a smell of smoke hit him. And then he saw them. Seven men, clustered in a corner, their faces familiar yet masked by shadows and years of memory. His heart stuttered. These were the same men who had slaughtered his parents four years ago.
Rage consumed him. His hands gripped the nearest iron rod, knuckles whitening. He stormed toward the crowd, ready to shatter the celebration.
"Logan! Stop!" Alexander's voice cut through his fury.
Logan turned, breathing heavily, eyes blazing like fire. Alexander moved swiftly, hands on Logan's mouth to silence the scream that threatened to erupt. "Not here. Not now," he hissed, dragging Logan toward the open field outside.
Veteran George, observing from afar, followed silently. His presence was a calming shadow beside Alexander, steadying Logan's wild energy.
"They killed my parents," Logan spat, voice trembling with barely contained rage.
"I know," Alexander replied calmly. "And tonight… tonight, they'll pay. But not here. We can't risk Henry's trust or the town. These are just pawns. Common Death Bringers. Tonight, they die for what they did."
As night draped over Willowbrook, the seven goons walked unsuspecting through a narrow street. Shadows deepened, streets emptied. And then, like phantoms from the darkness, the three figures appeared.
On one side, Logan and George; on the other, Alexander William, calm, collected, revolver ready. The goons froze, realization dawning too late.
Alexander's voice rang out, sharp and commanding:"Logan… who among them killed your parents?"
Logan's eyes locked on the man wearing the brown hat. His lips curled with silent hatred.
"Do what you must," Alexander said, raising his revolver. In a single, precise motion, he took down the other six men, their bodies collapsing to the ground with muted thuds.
Now, only one remained. The man in the brown hat faced Logan, sneering, yet aware of the storm before him.
The fight was brutal. Metal met flesh, grunts of pain and fury echoed through the empty street. Logan faltered, taking a heavy hit. Blood trickled from his brow, vision blurred. But Alexander stepped back, letting Logan wrestle with the man, offering no aid.
Then Alexander whispered words that cut sharper than any blade:"Remember your parents… the goodness they carried… how they were taken… the lives they could have lived. They trusted, they cared… and these monsters… they destroyed everything."
Rage surged anew, hotter and faster than pain. Logan's strikes became relentless. One punch, two, three—then a final devastating blow sent the man crumpling to the ground. Silence fell.
Logan stood panting, hands bloodied, chest heaving. Beside him, George and Alexander nodded. Without a word, the three dragged the bodies into the nearest sewage channel, leaving no trace behind.
The street was empty, night reclaimed its calm, but Logan's soul felt… lighter. Vengeance had been claimed. Justice, in his own hands, had finally been served.
And in that darkness, the bond between the three allies deepened—unyielding, unbreakable, and forged in blood.