The car rolled to a smooth stop just across the street from the Crimson Hand’s primary base. It was an imposing structure, nestled in the heart of the city like a fortress carved from steel and stone. Liam sat for a mont, staring at it, his jaw locked tight. There were no signs, no banners. But he knew this was one of their hub. Boss could be here.
Liam stepped out.
The night air was cool, a breeze carrying the distant hum of the city behind him. As his boots crunched against the gravel path leading to the entrance, two guards stepped forward. They were ard with rifles, tension written across their faces.
"Who the hell are you?" one of them barked, weapon raised halfway.
Liam didn’t respond.
Then the other guard got a proper look at his face. His expression changed instantly—from suspicion to horror. "Shit... that’s him."
Even the first guard’s hands started to tremble. "L-Liam?"
There wasn’t a single mber of Crimson Hand that didn’t recognize him. His face had haunted their nightmares for months, a living weapon that left nothing but wreckage in his wake. Rumors had circulated that he vanished. That maybe he was dead.
But now he was here.
Right in front of their doorstep.
Panic set in as they raised their guns, fingers tightening on triggers.
But it was already too late.
Before they could squeeze off a single shot, Liam vanished. A gust of wind followed in his wake as he appeared between them. In the blink of an eye, his hands locked around both their throats.
The guards gasped and struggled, kicking and squirming as Liam lifted them off the ground like they weighed nothing.
"You shouldn’t have aid," he said quietly.
And then ca the crunch. A bone-snapping, sickening sound as their necks snapped under his tightening grip. Their bodies twitched once, then went limp. He dropped them without a second glance.
One of their rifles clattered to the ground. Liam bent down, picked it up, and turned just in ti to hear footsteps pounding from inside the compound.
They were coming.
The first wave of five guards rushed out the main hall, not yet aware of what had happened. Their rifles weren’t even fully raised.
Liam didn’t hesitate.
He squeezed the trigger, short, precise bursts.
Each bullet found its mark. Heads exploded. Bodies crumpled mid-sprint. The group of five hit the floor within seconds.
Silence returned.
Liam dropped the gun at his feet and kept walking forward with calm, asured steps. His hands now clasped behind his back as though he were taking a casual stroll.
Inside the base, alarms had begun to sound.
When Liam stepped into the main corridor, the atmosphere changed.
They were waiting.
About twenty n had gathered in formation, blocking his path. Each one had their rifle trained on him, eyes wide but focused. They knew who he was, but they had orders.
Behind them, standing out like a crooked nail, was a man who looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He was tall and thin—thin enough that Liam wondered if the wind might knock him over. His cheekbones were sharp, his eyes sunken, and his posture was confident, even commanding.
This was the man barking orders to the twenty soldiers.
He stepped forward slightly and said, "What are you doing here? Who are you looking for?"
Liam chuckled under his breath. It was a slow, deep sound that echoed across the corridor.
He t the man’s eyes and tilted his head slightly. "Get your boss."
The skinny man didn’t flinch. He rely shook his head, calm as ever. "If you value your life... you’ll turn around and walk away. Now."
The tension in the room tightened like a wire pulled to its limit.
Liam just stood there, not even blinking, his eyes growing darker.
Liam smiled.
It was a slow, cold smile—the kind that didn’t reach the eyes. Then he moved.
The thin man at the back barely had ti to shout, "Fire!"
Twenty rifles roared to life.
But Liam was no longer where he’d been standing.
To the soldiers, it was like watching a blur of shadows and wind. Bullets flew, but none t flesh. Liam danced through the air with speed they couldn’t hope to follow, moving low and fast, twisting around their sights like he’d choreographed the entire assault.
Before the first man could even reload, Liam appeared beside him and grabbed him by the neck. The soldier barely got out a choked gasp before Liam hurled him ten feet into the air. His body slamd into another gunman with a sickening crack that folded both of them to the floor like broken dolls.
The rest of the group panicked.
But Liam didn’t even break a sweat.
He moved through their formation with the ease of a man taking a stroll through a garden. One soldier lunged with a knife—Liam caught the blade mid-air with two fingers, spun the man around, and drove the knife straight into his back.
Another tried to shoot point-blank. Liam ducked, swiped the man’s legs out from under him, and stomped on his chest hard enough to cave in his ribcage.
Two more tried to retreat—Liam snapped forward, grabbed both of their heads, and smashed them together. Blood sprayed. Skulls cracked.
More screaming. More bullets. None touched him.
He weaved through gunfire with inhuman precision. Kicked a gun out of one man’s hand, caught it midair, and shot him in the face with his own weapon. Then he turned the gun sideways and sprayed at two more, hitting them both in the chest and sending their bodies flying.
One desperate soldier lunged with a baton, yelling as he swung. Liam didn’t bother dodging. He caught the baton mid-swing, yanked the man forward, and drove his knee into his face so hard it collapsed inward.
Eight n were down.
Twelve to go.
They grouped tighter, clearly afraid now, eyes wide with disbelief.
Liam smirked as he walked toward them calmly, blood splattered across his joggers and black t-shirt. Still, he kept his hands behind his back as if he wasn’t even trying.
One brave fool scread and charged.
Liam tilted his head, sidestepped, and elbowed him in the throat—caving it in. The man dropped with a gurgle.
Another soldier tried to run. Liam extended his hand, summoned a shard of wind-ford feathers, and flung it. The shimring projectile whistled through the air before slicing the man clean across the neck.
Seven more fell, and Liam didn’t even use a weapon. Just his fists, his boots, and occasionally, whatever broken parts of the environnt he could grab—a tal pole used to impale one man against the wall, a shattered chair leg used to crush another’s skull.
In less than two minutes, the twenty-man formation was gone.
Blood pooled on the floor. Bodies lay in awkward, broken heaps. The air reeked of gunpowder and burnt flesh.
And standing in the middle of the carnage was Liam, not a single scratch on him, hands still behind his back.
The thin man hadn’t moved.
He was the last one left—and sohow, he wasn’t afraid.
He stared at Liam with unnerving calm, his eyes not blinking, lips pressed into a firm line.
Liam’s eyes narrowed slightly. The killing intent around him began to lower.
This man... was different.
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