People screamed, panicking, forming a stampede, an ocean of faces trampling over each other in order to survive as explosions echoed throughout the 7th district.

Zeke looked on towards the distance with a great deal of distress.

“I have to go,” he said, boiling with rage.

“I’ll go too,” Hanna muttered in response, preparing to rush forward.

“No!” Zeke blocked her path with his hand. “This is a matter of reputation. If I allow you to go, there will be no end to these attacks,” he stated, tightly clenching his fist. “I need to show them an overwhelming defeat with no hope of a comeback.”

“At least cover your face,” Hanna said, handing Zeke a white scarf she had packed in her bag.

Zeke grabbed the scarf out of her hand, wrapping it around his face and head as if it was a keffiyeh.

He rushed toward the source of the commotion, his heart pounding as the chaos unfolded before him. A horrid scene stretched out across his district, where the once-thriving community had been reduced to nothing more than smoldering ruins. Several multi-story buildings, each a symbol of the people’s livelihood, had been leveled by powerful explosives. Thick clouds of smoke and dust hung heavy in the air, as if the very breath of life had been choked out of the area. The devastation was beyond words—countless men, women, and children lay buried beneath the rubble, their homes now their tombs.

A few of the survivors had been lucky enough to claw their way to the surface, their cries piercing the heavy air. They screamed, their voices raw, pleading for help from anyone who could hear them. But there would be no salvation for them. Instead, these last desperate cries for mercy were cut short, silenced by the cold, ruthless precision of a bullet, shot directly between their eyes. Zeke watched helplessly as their lives were snuffed out one by one, his heart seething with fury.

A dozen attackers— masked figures dressed in combat gear—methodically picked their way through the ruins, patrolling the rubble like hunters stalking prey. They searched for any who might have survived, ready to end their lives with a cold, detached efficiency. The message behind this massacre was chillingly clear: “This is what happens when you dare defy the corporations. You steal from us, we steal your people.” Zeke could almost hear those words as if they were spoken directly into his ear. The rage simmering in his chest threatened to consume him, pushing him toward the brink.

Forcing himself to stay calm, Zeke took a deep breath, crouching low to the ground, his body melding with the dust and debris around him. His days as a regular human had taught him a vital skill, one that had kept him alive in the most dangerous situations—stealth. The ability to disappear in plain sight, to become a shadow, was something he had perfected over the years he spent in Lower Babel. It had saved him countless times in the past, and today, it would serve him once again.

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He moved silently, inching his way through the wreckage, the acrid stench of burning metal and flesh filling his nostrils. Every step was calculated, every movement controlled as he crept behind one of the masked attackers. The man stood oblivious, scanning the horizon. Without warning, Zeke sprang into action. His hand shot out, locking around the man’s neck in a tight grip. With a quick twist, he subdued him, dropping the attacker into unconsciousness. Zeke wasted no time; he stripped the man of his weapons—a machine gun and an anti-demon pistol—tools he would soon put to use.

As the fog of war thickened, swirling around the battlefield like a shroud, Zeke became a ghost. He slithered through the dust, moving with the practiced grace of a predator. Zeke prowled along the ground like his namesake. He stalked his enemies, watching, waiting. When the moment was right, Zeke pounced. He opened fire with the machine gun, his aim deadly accurate. But he didn’t target vital areas—no, Zeke was far too controlled for that. Instead, he aimed at their legs, sending them crashing to the ground in agony. The battlefield became a stage for his calculated dance of destruction.

As the dust began to settle, the wounded attackers writhed in pain, gazing up at the figure towering over them. Zeke stood there, his eyes ablaze with an unrelenting fury. The sight of him, with his face hardened by years of battle and his body poised for more, sent waves of terror through their hearts. It was a fear that transcended logic, a primal instinct that told them they were facing something far more dangerous than a mere man.

Zeke moved with the precision of a seasoned warrior; each shot fired with intent. He wasn’t looking to kill; he sought to cripple, to disable, to leave his enemies helpless. His bullets found their targets, severing tendons and shattering bones, rendering his foes unable to fight back. He weaved through the battlefield with the ease of a master tactician, breaking through enemy lines and scattering them like leaves before a storm.

Then, his assault rifle clicked empty. Without missing a beat, Zeke tossed the weapon aside and charged forward. Bullets zipped past him, but he was too fast, too agile. In one fluid motion, he delivered a bone-crushing kick to the nearest attacker, sending him sprawling. With a spin that seemed almost like a dance, Zeke gathered momentum and struck another with a devastating palm thrust to the stomach, knocking the air out of him. He moved as though he were part of the battlefield itself, striking down each opponent with a deadly grace.

Before long, Zeke reached a clearing. Large tent-like structures had been erected between the crumbling buildings, their heavy canvas draped to protect those inside from falling debris and dust. The scene inside the tents was horrifying. Civilians, the people Zeke had sworn to protect, were crammed into cages like animals. Some were standing, their bodies pressed so tightly together that they could barely breathe. Others had collapsed, piled on top of one another, with those at the bottom convulsing in the throes of suffocation. The air was thick with despair.

Guarding the cages were nine men, each dressed in heavy, patchwork armor—leather reinforced with metal plates. These weren’t the same rabble Zeke had faced before. These were contractors. They stood idly by, barely concerned with the battle raging around them. Their confidence was palpable—they didn’t believe anyone would dare challenge them.

But they were wrong.