Mason Carter was finally starting to feel fear.
He pulled out his phone and dialed 911.But no matter how many times he called, the line was always busy.
Two minutes.No answer.
The city was paralyzed under a deadly blizzard. Even the hospitals had shut down.And even if one was open, no ambulance was making it through these conditions.
After a moment of hesitation, Mason made a decision—He was going to perform surgery on himself.
He wasn't going to just sit there and bleed out.
He dragged himself back inside, pulled out a combat knife, some rubbing alcohol, gauze, and a few emergency meds.As a street thug, this wasn't his first rodeo—his home was stocked for dirty work.
He sliced open his pant leg, and the moment he saw the injury, his face turned pale.His leg was frozen solid.The cold had iced over the wound and temporarily stopped the bleeding.
But the area around it was already turning purple and numb.
Mason knew this leg was screwed.
No one was coming to help.
With gritted teeth and pure thug grit, he went to work.
No anesthetic.No hesitation.
Just pain.Mind-numbing pain.
He nearly passed out, but he managed to extract the crossbow bolt and wrap the wound.Still, the leg was done for.
Collapsed on the couch, gasping, Mason's eyes burned with rage.
"Ethan... you little piece of sh*t… I swear I'll f**king kill you!"
He wasn't bluffing.He meant it.
Because if word got out that he—the infamous Mason Carter—got punked by some nobody?
His rep was done.
Still trembling, he opened the residents' group chat and @Ethan:
"You dogsh*t bastard! Just you fking wait. If I don't kill you, I'll eat my own fking name!"
Most of the other residents didn't know what had happened.
But hearing that Ethan pissed off Mason Carter?
That was enough to scare the hell out of them.
Everyone knew Mason was dangerous.
What they didn't know was…Ethan had just wrecked his leg with a crossbow.
Some people, though, were thrilled.
Grandma Linda, still bitter over her public humiliation, muttered:
"Good. Let the dogs kill each other. Neither of them's any good!"
"Hope that thug beats Ethan to death! That's what he gets for yelling at me!"
Even Rachel Whitmore read the chat and scoffed.
Serves him right. Ignored me like I'm nothing? Let's see how cocky you are now, Ethan.
But no one dared speak up.
Everyone was afraid they'd get caught in the crossfire.
Ethan?He saw the message—and laughed.
Loudly.
"Mason Carter? That one-legged mutt? He doesn't scare me."
He sent a voice message into the group chat:
"You're all bark, no bite. Come at me again, and I'll take the other leg too."
The chat went dead silent.
People were stunned.
He actually fought Mason—and won?!
Mason nearly crushed his phone in his hand.
"I'll f**king KILL YOU, ETHAN!"
Ethan fired back without hesitation:
"Bring it, dog. Let's see who survives this winter."
This was the apocalypse now.No laws.No cops.No mercy.
Ethan wasn't pretending to be civil anymore.
Back in his apartment, Mason clutched his wounded leg.The air conditioning barely kept the cold away.
The pain was unbearable.He'd need a cane to walk from now on.
But he wasn't giving up.
"I was caught off guard once. That's on me."
"Next time? I'll be ready."
He pulled out his phone again and called his crew.
"Bring the bats. The pipes. Whatever you've got. We're killing this f**ker tonight."
Most of his boys lived nearby.When they heard Mason had been shot, they were furious.
They grabbed machetes, bats, steel pipes—and headed straight to Mason's place.
When they saw his bloody leg?
They wanted blood.
"Who did this, boss?! We'll chop the bastard to pieces!"
"He's in this building. Room 2401. But be careful—he's got a crossbow."
"He ambushed me like a f**king coward. Don't let him hit you."
They all nodded, fired up and frothing at the mouth.
They were street rats—thugs who loved chaos.And now? In a lawless frozen city?
It was hunting season.
Meanwhile, Ethan was casually gaming on the couch.His eyes glanced at the surveillance feeds.
He saw every single thug marching toward his door.
He didn't flinch.
His weapons were already lined up on the table.
Let them come.
He wasn't showing mercy.
Soon enough, a dozen of Mason's goons arrived at his door.
They were cautious at first—some held planks like shields, still scared of that crossbow.
But when they reached the door and saw no resistance, they got bold.
"Open the f**king door!"
"You think you can mess with Carter and walk away?!"
"Come out, you piece of sh*t! Today's your funeral!"
They began pounding the steel door with hammers, pipes, and bats.
Ethan kept playing.He was stuck on a boss fight and dying repeatedly.
Their yelling was getting annoying.
"Can you hit any softer?" he shouted sarcastically. "Swing like you mean it!"
The thugs went wild, smashing harder.
But the door?
Twenty-centimeter-thick military-grade alloy.
It didn't even dent.
All they managed to do was scratch the paint.
After five minutes of futile smashing, they were exhausted—and shocked.
"Dude… this door's f**king solid metal."
"What the hell did this guy build?! A bank vault?!"
They panicked.But they had promised Mason they'd bring Ethan back bloody.
So they kept yelling and hitting.
Inside, Ethan's game character died—again.
Now he was pissed.
He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a hose, and hooked it up to the tap.
He climbed up to the internal shooting slit near the top of the door.
The thugs below didn't even see it.
Ethan sneered.
"Let's cool you idiots off."
He turned the water on full blast.
Ice-cold water exploded out of the slit and poured all over the hallway.
The tiny corridor became a freezing rainstorm.