A moment of stillness hung in the air—thick, choking, like the breath before a scream. The kind of silence that makes your skin itch, like the air itself is afraid to move.
The goons stared at the figure in the center—not a man, not even a monster. Just wrong. A maroon hoodie clung to him like death's uniform, soaked at the edges with dried blood, black and flaking. The fabric hung in shreds, like it had been through a hundred wars and bled through all of them.
Beneath the hood, his face was eaten by shadow. Not hidden—swallowed. Light refused to touch him. It bent around his features like even photons didn't want to get involved. Only one thing proved he was alive.
Chew. Chew.
The soft, rhythmic grind of gum breaking apart echoed like a death rattle. Mechanical. Mocking. Inhuman.
The figure tilted his head—slow, deliberate. Not curious. Not cautious. Calculating. Like a starving predator sizing up which part of the prey to eat first.
The air behind him shuddered. Not moved. Warped.
The shadows curled in like something was breathing in reverse. The light overhead dimmed—not flickered, dimmed, as if the bulbs were trying to flee. The temperature didn't drop. It collapsed.
One of the guards muttered, "He's just one guy.
"They were trying to convince themselves.
"…Your death," the figure replied, voice deep, hushed, grainy like sand in your ears, the kind of sound you feel in your bones before your brain can understand it.
Laughter followed. Nervous. Broken. Fragile.
They didn't understand.
Not yet.
And then—
Reality broke.
The aura around him snapped, like a wire pulled too tight for too long.
You could feel it. Like gravity inverted for a split second.
Boom. The sound of gunfire cracked—Too slow.
He was already gone.
The muzzle flash lit up nothing. Just empty space where he'd been.
Then—
Screams.
One man's arm twisted backward, not dislocated—crushed into the wrong direction with a single jerk. He screamed, but it came out wet and gurgled as his own shoulder blade pierced his neck. The figure spun him, using the body like a shield—Thud. Thud. Thud. Bullets hit flesh, spraying blood like confetti.
Another guard lunged, blade up, screaming—Wrong move. The figure caught his wrist mid-air .Snap.
The bone didn't just break—it exploded under his grip like glass under a hammer.
The knife dropped, but not for long. He snatched it, rammed it up through the man's chin, into his skull.
Pop.
The eye bulged, then burst. Blood painted the floor in arcs.
Behind him, another tried to sneak up. Poor bastard.
Without even turning, the figure rammed his elbow back—the sound it made was like dropping a pumpkin from a rooftop.
The man crumpled in place, blood frothing from his mouth as his lungs collapsed inward.
Then came the bite.
Not metaphorical. Real.
The hoodie figure dropped to all fours for a moment like a beast, then bit into a man's thigh with a snarl that didn't belong in anything human.
His teeth tore through meat and muscle, chewing it like raw steak. Blood sprayed, warm and high-pressure, painting his hoodie in fresh gore.
He didn't wipe his mouth.
He smiled with it.
Another goon raised a plasma rifle.
The figure raised... a pipe.
Metal. Rusted. Bent. Like it had been ripped from the wall by hand.
He hurled it like a javelin.
CRACK.
It didn't just hit.
It impaled—straight through the man's thigh and into the concrete floor. He shrieked, nailed like a crucifix, trembling.
The figure plucked the rifle from his limp hands—Bang.
No hesitation.
No flair.Just a clean shot to the chest that vaporized everything from sternum to spine.
He wasn't fighting.
He was butchering.
Two more guards backed into the wall, whispering prayers.
Eyes wide. Hands trembling.
"W-What is he?!" one sobbed.
The lights overhead flickered again—like they were trying not to see.
He stepped forward, no weapons in hand.
Barefoot now.
Blood squelched under every step
Squish.
Squish.
The sound was worse than the silence.
Like the ground itself was begging him to stop.
A plasma bolt fired—He swatted it aside with a dangling chain, like flicking away a fly. Ping.
It ricocheted. Splat.
Took a man's ear off in an arc of meat and cartilage.
Then—A knife
Whistle. Thunk.
Straight between the eyes.
Two more goons dropped their weapons and begged, tears streaming.
He didn't speak.
He didn't show mercy.
Two strikes.
Necks open. Arteries spitting blood like fountains.
They died like meat sacks.
And then—
Silence.
The Broker was still behind the counter.
Pale. Drenched. Twitching.
He raised his hands like a man who had already pissed himself—and had no dignity left to lose.
Alya and Nolan? Frozen.
Statues.They'd seen death.
Hell, they'd lived in it.
But this?
This wasn't a killer.
It was an extinction event wearing a hoodie.
The figure walked toward the Broker.
Every step sounded like the drip of a countdown.
Chew. Chew.
That gum kept going, mocking.
"P-Please!" the Broker cried, a mixture of spit and blood flying. "I-I got info! Credits! Girls! I-I'll—"
He stopped.
He crouched. Face to face.
And from the darkness under that hood—two eyes, no light, no soul. Just hunger.
"Repeat," he said.
Voice dry. Broken. Like a corpse learning to talk.
"What you said. About the girl. And the boy."
The Broker pissed himself. You could hear it. It splashed.
Then—
Crack.
Neck twisted
Eyes bulged.
Mouth still half-begging. Dead.
The figure stood again. No drama. No one-liner.
Just a corpse behind him.
He turned. Looked at Alya and Nolan.
They didn't run.
They didn't breathe.
The hoodie was soaked, dripping blood like sweat. His aura vibrated—a pulse of quiet, impossible violence.
His silhouette was not a man.
It was the absence of one.
And then he walked away.
No sound.
No goodbye.
Just a monster leaving a message written in blood and bones.
Alya dropped to her knees. Nolan caught her, both shaking like leaves in a hurricane.
Not from fear.
Not from shock.
But because they had just witnessed the one thing worse than death—
The thing death itself fears.
And now… it's walking toward them.