Al led the charge through the smoke, boots crunching against scattered debris as the alarms screeched their war cry. His shotgun swept the way, and his face wore that familiar grimace—the one he wore when he was pissed, which was most of the time. I followed close behind, pistols up, Frank coiled around me like a living shadow. The hole we’d blasted in the reinforced wall was just the appetizer; the main course waited ahead.

The room was industrial, all cold metal and crates stacked like some dystopian maze. It had the charm of a “Do Not Enter” sign come to life—a gallery of menace curated for maximum discomfort. Shadows stretched long under flickering fluorescent lights, and the air carried the tang of oil and sweat. The crates weren’t about to stop us, though. The first wave of Cat’s boys exploded from cover, their shouts sharp and urgent.

“Showtime!” Al roared, his shotgun barking. He moved like a storm, calculated and destructive, while I fired with calm precision.

These weren’t just hired guns or run-of-the-mill security grunts; they were Cat’s people—the kind of scum who could only land a job working for someone even nastier than they were.

The first thug folded as my bullet found his thigh, crumpling with a scream that barely cut through the din. A second staggered as I winged his shoulder, his weapon clattering uselessly to the concrete. Al didn’t waste time on the third—his shot tore through the guy’s torso, leaving nothing to wonder about. Clean work. Efficient.

“They’re really rolling out the red carpet,” I said, spinning into cover behind a stack of crates. More of Cat’s crew spilled into the fray, moving with the kind of desperation that reeked of underpay and overconfidence.

Al shot me a glare mid-reload. “Less talking, more shooting.”

“What, no banter? Who hurt you?” I grinned, ducking as a spray of bullets chewed into the crate I’d just vacated. Splinters rained down like confetti.

Al pumped the shotgun with practiced ease, the next blast tearing through a charging thug and sending him sprawling. The guy hit the ground hard, clutching his weapon like it was going to save him from the mess he’d just walked into.

Before we could even catch our breath, more goons poured in, tripping over each other in their enthusiasm to die poorly. Bullets started chewing up everything around us, and we had no choice but to duck behind the nearest cover—a toppled table, a dented crate, someone’s poor decorating decision. Didn’t matter. It wasn’t stopping the storm coming our way.

“Think they’ll listen if we ask nicely?” Al quipped, blasting a thug who tried to flank him.

“Only one way to find out.” I shouted over the gunfire. “Hey, fellas, any chance we could talk this out?”

The response was a hail of bullets that splintered the crate I was hiding behind.

“Guess not,” Al deadpanned.

The crates funneled us toward a staircase that emptied into an atrium—a cavernous space where bullets pinged off railings and ricocheted like pissed-off hornets. Al shoved me behind a column as the chaos erupted around us.

“Got a plan?” he asked, reloading with quick efficiency.

“Yeah,” I said, risking a peek around the corner. My grin stretched wide, defiant. “Don’t get shot.”

“Brilliant.”

I darted out before he could argue. Frank shifted around me, swirling midnight armor. Bullets whined past, close enough to burn the air, but they missed. I lined up my shots, taking one guard down and clipping another, then ducked behind a rail as Al stormed forward, shotgun blazing.

The sound of a grenade clattering to the floor made my blood freeze. Aether-enhanced, buzzing with a faint, dangerous glow. “Shit!” I grabbed it, hurling it back toward the doorway. It exploded mid-arc, the flash so bright it painted the world white. Staggering, half-blind, I pressed forward, letting adrenaline sharpen my other senses.

“You alive?” Al’s voice cut through the chaos, as sharp and annoyed as ever.

“Barely,” I called back, blinking away stars.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Good enough,” he grunted.

We cleared room after room—offices, conference rooms, a break area or two. Each was littered with shattered glass, overturned desks, and blood slicking the floors. OSHA would’ve had a field day, but Cat didn’t seem like the type to care about workplace safety. Al grappled with a hulking guard swinging a baton crackling with energy. I tossed him my spare pistol, and he ended it with a clean knee shot followed by one to the head.

“Nice catch,” I said, stepping over the downed brute.

“Keep ’em coming, kid.” Al’s smirk was feral, streaked with blood.

The next wave came fast—smoke grenades filling the halls with a thick, choking fog. It was like fighting in a magician’s nightmare, the kind where nothing good comes out of the hat. I switched to my short sword, the blade whisper-sharp and eager. My vision didn’t matter; ever since taking down that demon, the world had changed for me. Every sound, every heartbeat, every staggered breath painted the battlefield in static clarity.

A guard rushed in, his outline sharp against the gray smoke. I ducked his swing, my sword slicing through his arm with surgical precision. He screamed, blood arcing in a dark spray, and I ended it with a clean cut across his throat. The smoke turned the hallway into a fever dream, but I moved like instinct—silent, unrelenting, lethal.

Al fired blindly through the haze, each shotgun blast a thunderous punctuation. By the time the smoke thinned, the floor was littered with bodies. Al scanned for the next staircase, his gaze cutting through the chaos.

“You good?” he asked, his eyes scanning me quickly, his tone casual despite the chaos.

I pointed at the blood dripping from his nose. “You’ve got a little something...”

He wiped it with his sleeve, smearing the blood into a streak across his face. He grinned wide, teeth flashing through the red. “Better?”

It wasn’t.

“Sure.”

We pressed on, the floors ahead guarded by reinforcements in Rift-armor. Al swapped to a pair of enhanced revolvers, their faint glow casting an eerie light on his blood-smeared hands. Deadly as hell, but with ammo running low, every shot counted now. The pile of discarded weapons at our feet was a grim reminder—we were running out of options fast.

He tore through the opposition with practiced brutality, while I danced between them, my blade singing with every strike.

A spray of bullets tore through the air, and I felt the jarring impact as a few found their mark. I glanced down to see fresh holes marring the surface of my jacket, a few making it through to my armored vest.

“Shit!” I growled, my voice low and sharp as I spun to face the idiot responsible.

Then it got worse. One of the goons, staggering and desperate, stumbled into me, his blood smearing across Frank’s torn surface. Before I could react, he drove a ten-inch blade between the seams in my side, slipping through the gaps where my armor couldn’t protect me. The sharp, searing pain hit first, then the warm rush of blood spilling out.

Rage flared white-hot, drowning out everything else. I grabbed his head with both hands and slammed mine into it—once, twice, three times. Bone cracked, blood sprayed, and still, I didn’t stop. The world narrowed to the sound of impact and the metallic taste in my mouth.

By the time I let him go, his body crumpled to the floor, lifeless. My breaths came in ragged gasps, pain and fury mingling as I wiped the blood from my face, glaring down at the corpse. I used Frank’s sleave to clean my face from the blood.

Seriously? Frank hissed in my mind, his tone a venomous mix of disgust and fury. Jack, I’m not a mop!

The frustration inside me reached a breaking point, boiling over into something sharp and primal. Another guard, clearly feeling brave—or just stupid—rushed in, a wickedly curved sword gleaming in his hands. He swung with wild force, the blade singing through the air in an arc meant to cleave me in two.

I didn’t hesitate. I lunged forward, my own blade moving like it had a mind of its own—precise, lethal, unrelenting. Steel met flesh in a single, brutal sweep. The guard’s eyes widened in that fleeting moment of realization, but it was too late. My sword carved clean through him, his momentum carrying him forward even as his body collapsed.

The thud of his lifeless form hitting the ground was almost drowned out by the pounding of my heartbeat. I stood there for a moment, the weight of the strike settling as his blood dripped from my blade, pooling at my feet.

“Bad choice,” I muttered under my breath, stepping past him to find the next fight.

Frank’s torn edges were already stitching themselves back together, faster than I’d ever seen. My energy surged through him, feeding the process, but I could feel his frustration prickling in my mind.

You don’t pay me enough for this, Frank grumbled, his voice heavy in my mind.

Don’t worry, I muttered, dodging a bullet and slicing through another guard. I’ll give you a raise when we get out of this.

Perhaps, Frank huffed, the jacket tightening around my shoulders for emphasis, you’ll even consider taking a shower. That alone would be payment enough.

The rhythm of the fight felt like music, a chaotic tempo that made the darkness in me stir. And for a moment, I didn’t hate it—the adrenaline, the rush, the wicked grin that spread when I realized we were still alive.

For now.