Henry, Andreas's six-foot-two slab of muscle, his right-hand behemoth with blond hair and ice-blue eyes, let out a strangled shriek that belied his steroid-pumped frame. He stumbled backward, thick fingers fumbling with the cylinder of his revolver, desperately trying to eject the spent casings. Panic and sheer terror turned the simple act into an exercise in futility, hands shaking so violently, that using the push-lever was impossible.

  I was on him before his third clumsy step, the heel of my boot connecting with his knee, folding it like cheap tin foil. He crashed down with a sickening crunch, agonized howl cut short as I brought my foot down again, the impact bursting his skull like a watermelon.

  DING!

  My head snapped up at the sound of metal on concrete. Benny, the green-mohawked pissant that referred to himself as the "loco guy" of Andreas's crew, had managed to get halfway through reloading his pistol. His eyes, wide and frantic, were glued to me, face locked in a grimace of pure terror, the reek of piss wafting off him like mist.

  My hand clamped down on his, a brutal crunch of bone and pulped flesh as I crushed it against the cold steel of his own pistol. In one swift, violent motion, I yanked the gun free and swung, burying my fist into and straight through his skull, bursting the back in a shower of bone and brain matter.

  "DIE!" A subtle rustle of fabric alerted me an instant before the roar. I spun, arm shooting out to intercept a wrist, stopping the knife inches from my face.

  Unlike Benny, the loudmouthed poser who just talked about being crazy, Rico was the genuine article. Tall and wiry, with a jutting jaw, he had been Andreas's "problem solver". The guy he sent whenever gophers' families needed threatening, when shins needed cracking with hammers, or, worst of all, to find the sisters of gophers and "rough them up", just to make a point. Only Andreas's connections had kept him out of juvie hall, or outright prison, considering the whispers that followed him.

  His large, strangler's hands gripped the dagger's pommel, trying to brute-force it into my head. He grunted and hissed through clenched teeth, pushing with every ounce of his considerable strength. Gotta give him credit, Rico hadn't panicked. He was living up to his nasty reputation.

  But the knife wouldn't budge. My grip was iron.

  "Gonna gut you, gopher. Gonna gut you for…" his words dissolved into a high-pitched, piercing scream as my free hand shot down, grabbed, and crushed his testicles into a pulpy mess.

  Rumors and reputation aside, this particular piece of shit was directly responsible for too many ruined lives. So, unlike the other three, I wasn't going to make it quick. This one was gonna suffer a little bit.

  Rico crumpled in a spasming, thrashing heap, hands clutched to his groin, eyes bulging with agony and shock.

  CLACK!

  I pivoted towards the distant click.

  Andreas had bolted to the far side of the "battlefield," trying to brute-force his way through the invisible dome towards the APCs. When that proved futile, he'd resigned himself to reloading his handgun while I was busy dismantling his crew. Now, it was all he could do to stand there, gun wavering in his trembling hands, pointed at me. He was trapped in with me.

  "Stay back! STAY BACK, YOU FUCKING MONSTER!!" he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips.

  Skin thickened, turning rough and leathery, nails elongating into sharp talons as my hand swelled, flesh warping into that grotesque, monstrous hybrid of hand and beastly claw. Rico's screams hit a new, ear-splitting pitch, body thrashing uselessly as I dug my claw into the nape of his neck and began walking towards Andreas, holding the howling, thrashing man in front of me like a grotesque meat shield.

  "No! NO!!! STAY BACK!!!" Andreas's renewed roars echoed through the warehouse, each word punctuated by the sharp crack of gunfire. Bullets slammed into Rico, the force of each impact reverberating through my arm.

  But my advance didn't falter. Not when Rico began to sob and plead. Not when Andreas frantically slammed a fresh magazine into his already empty gun. Not when the bullets started flying again.

  By the time I reached Andreas, Rico had gone still, a broken doll in my grip, blood painting the concrete in dark, slick patterns.

  I hurled the corpse, eighty kilos of dead weight slamming into Andreas, knocking the air from his lungs and bouncing him off the shimmering surface of the dome. The clatter of his precious, gold-plated Desert Eagle as it skittered across the floor was a perverse kind of music as I bent to retrieve it.

  "Jon! JON, LISTEN TO ME! I'll go, alright? You can keep the guns, whatever, man, alright? I'm… I'm… taking your offer. I'm gonna leave… I…" he stammered, frantically shoving Rico's limp body off him, scrambling to get to his feet.

  "No," I murmured, my eyes fixed on the heavy pistol, slowly thumbing back the hammer. "Not how this works. Offer was made. You chose your path."

  "Jon, nonono, listen, listen, you don't have to do this, we… we can talk… I… I don't wanna die, man…" The words, a chilling echo of poor Tim's desperate plea that night, facing his own death, froze me. I looked down at the prone figure. The perpetual smirk, the sneering contempt, the arrogance made flesh – all gone, replaced by raw, naked fear. The same look Tim had worn. Just some guy, terrified of death, seconds from losing control of his bowels.

  I sighed.

  Reality was a bitch. It always was. Midnight fantasies of righteous revenge were just that. Fantasies. The cold, hard truth was that people didn't meet their end with defiant snarls and boasts of their cruelty. They cried, they begged, they pissed themselves. Andreas was no different. For all that I pictured him a monster, he was human.

  "Do you have any idea...how many nights I'd spent wide awake... thinking about what I'd do to you if I ever got a chance?" I hissed, still staring at the gun as if it was some deep philosophical manuscript. bearing the answer to every unspoken question, instead of a simple hung of iron. "The fantasies of torture, the kind of shit that ought to have me committed if I ever were to speak them out?"

  Andreas's eyes widened, a flicker of desperation igniting within them. He cracked, fat tears and snot running down a chalk-white face, body shivering uncontrollably. "Jon... p-please... I didn't mean to...." He started, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

  "Save it. I don't wanna hear it. Not your reasoning, or your sob story. Maybe your old man beat you too much. Maybe not enough. Doesn't matter." I tore my eyes off the gun, letting my hand hang loose by my side.

  "All that matter is that now, when I finally have that chance I've been waiting for, all I feel is... tired. So I'm giving you mercy, Andreas."

  His fear-twisted grimace softened, morphing into an expression of pure, unadulterated relief as he began to scramble to his feet. "Thank you. Thank you, Jon. I promise, man, I'll walk out that door and you'll never have to…"

  BOOM!

  His expression didn't change. There wasn't time. My arm had whipped up, the heavy barrel of the Desert Eagle inches from his forehead, too fast for his eyes to track. The .45 caliber hollow-point punched through his skull between the eyes, exploding out the back of his head, painting the invisible dome with a grotesque splatter of blood and brain matter before his mind could even register what had happened. He crumpled to the floor, face still locked in that hopeful expression, dead before he hit the ground.

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  I didn't lie. Not often, anyway. It was one of my rules. And I hadn't lied this time either.

  Andreas Henderson had been granted mercy. The only kind I could offer a liability like him. The mercy of a quick death. More mercy than he deserved for all that he'd done.

  "I'll see you in Hell, you evil bastard," I muttered, ejecting the magazine and tossing the empty gun onto Andreas's corpse.

  "Is done then?" Shashka asked, still sitting impassively in the center of the makeshift arena. She'd stopped her grooming when the fight erupted and had been watching me with those unsettling mismatched eyes ever since.

  "Yeah. It's done. I'm done. With all of this," I whispered, the words barely audible, as much to myself as to her, gaze drifting from one lifeless form to another. It felt hollow. All of it.

  For all my attempts to convince myself this wasn't about revenge, I wasn't going to lie and pretend some dark corner of my soul hadn't felt a grim satisfaction when they'd refused my offer. It had given me the justification, the casus belli, to tear them apart. So yeah, a part of me had been happy when they'd said no. And I'd cut them down with the fervor that only someone deeply wronged could muster. Revenge had been a passenger on this ride, whether I admitted it or not.

  I didn't want to think on it. Dwell on it. The throbbing pain in my skull had come back with a vengeance, feeling like there was a bubble about to burst just behind my eyes. I spat a thick wad of phlegm onto the blood-soaked concrete and turned towards the hostages, yanking my machete free from the corpse mid-stride.

  "Yeah, I'm done," I muttered, my voice rough. I grabbed their arms, none too gently, and sliced through their bindings. Tina Miller was the only one I handled with a semblance of care, even pulling out two of the Orc Aether Stones and placing them within her reach before sheathing my machete and taking a few steps back.

  The four women watched me, their faces a canvas of fear, anxiety, and a wary reticence. They were scared shitless. Not surprising. Mina and Tina knew what I was, but the other two? Not even the Miller sisters hadn't seen me fight like that before.

  I ignored their stares. "There. Happy now? You got one APC. Andreas won't be a problem anymore. And those crystals," I gestured to the Aether Stones, "trade 'em with the Fey, you'll get a healing poultice. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna take my APC and get the hell out of here."

  Without waiting for a response, I turned and started towards my armored vehicle. Shashka had risen and was turning her head from me to the girls, eyes inscrutable. I didn't acknowledge her. If she wanted to follow, fine. If not, also fine. Better, probably. Right now, all I craved was some damn peace and quiet, and that craving exceeded even the importance of Shashka's possible information.. The intrusive thoughts were a relentless tide, my mind a goddamn racetrack.

  Silence hung heavy in the warehouse. Not a word from Shashka, the girls, or the rest of the students huddled as far back as they could manage. It would've felt oppressive if I hadn't been so damn grateful for the quiet as I worked, unlatching the towing cable from the second APC and winching it back into its metal cradle.

  But the blessed solace was fleeting. Just as my hand touched the door handle of my armored truck, Mina's small, hesitant voice cut through the stillness.

  "Jon…it's morning… already."

  I froze, hand still clamped around the cold metal of the door handle. Morning. Daylight. I hadn't even registered the passage of time. All I had to do was climb into the APC and drive. Away from everyone else's problems, away from the constant vigilance, away from the gnawing hunger and the incessant thrum of their lifeblood in my ears. I could finally let go, just for a damn minute, and try to piece together the shattered fragments of the last few hours. Maybe the distance would even help to reduce this headache. I could…

  Then something inside me snapped. Without conscious thought, my palms slammed against the side of the APC, the harsh clang of metal against skin echoing in the cavernous space. Again, and again, I struck the armored plating, harder each time, the cold surface digging into my hands as if I were trying to tear something apart with brute force. The vehicle shook and wobbled, but nothing gave, only the palms of my hands, scraped raw and bloody by the hard armor's surface.

  "GOD! FUCKING!! DAMN IT!!!" I roared, each word punctuated by a brutal impact against the steel.

  I didn't even know why I'd said it. It wasn't pure anger, not really. Not just rage. It was this crushing pressure, this knot tightening in my chest with nowhere to unravel. It was everything. The violence, the deaths, the sheer, goddamn, endlessness of it all. And my head just kept on hurting, more and more with each passing second.

  I leaned into the vehicle, pressing my forehead against the cold metal for a fleeting second, feeling its unyielding resistance. It didn't care. It didn't give a damn about the carnage I'd just unleashed or the turmoil churning inside me. I wasn't even sure what I'd hoped for – relief, satisfaction, freedom. Something. But all it offered was a stark reminder of how bone-deep tired I was. And I couldn't even sleep it off, even if I wanted to.

  The soft sound of footsteps behind me made me flinch. I didn't turn. It was Mina, probably. I didn't want to talk. I just wanted quiet.

  "Give me a minute," I muttered, the words a raw command born of exhaustion.

  She stammered, biting back whatever she'd been about to say. "Yeah, Jon… sorry…"

  The soft tap of her retreating footsteps on the concrete was all the confirmation I needed. With a sigh that felt heavier than the APC itself, I slid into the cramped interior. The air inside was stale, a cloying mix of gunpowder and oil clinging to the barely used synthetic materials. Not even bothering with the lock, just slammed the heavy door shut.

  It didn't matter anyway. After the display I'd put on out there, none of them, save maybe the unshakable Shashka, would be foolish enough to crawl into the proverbial beast's den.

  I hauled myself into the driver's seat, mesh material and faux leather warm against my back. My hand reached out and pressed the button with the small icon of a descending rectangle. With a soft whirr and the hiss of hydraulic pumps, the blast shielding began to slide down, dull grey metal plates covering the windows, slowly swallowing even the sickly glow of the warehouse's fluorescent lights. Within seconds, the interior was swallowed by absolute darkness.

  But I could still see. My unnatural eyes adjusted instantly, the darkness blooming into a monochromatic kaleidoscope of blacks, whites, and endless shades of grey. I could see as clearly as if I were standing in a well-lit chamber, despite not a single shred of light penetrating the armored shell.

  A press of the red button silenced the engine, and for long, drawn-out minutes, I simply sat there, finger hovering over the ignition, enveloped in a blessed, blissful quiet. The armored plating was thick enough to render the APC practically soundproof. It offered a fragile sense of distance, a flimsy barrier against the world outside, allowing me to at least pretend I was alone, away from questioning gazes, tension and the incessant noise.

  Sinking back into the seat, my eyes closing for a fleeting moment. I couldn't recall the last time I'd felt this utterly drained. Every inch of me was heavy, the fatigue seeping into my bones like a slow, insidious poison. Worst of all, despite the exhaustion, I wasn't truly tired. Sleep felt like a distant, unattainable luxury. And my mind? A relentless treadmill, replaying the last few hours, the days before that… everything. I simply couldn't stop thinking.

  "You there?" I hissed, trying to call out for the Animal.

  Just a shift in the back of my mind, dark tendrils of thought uncoiling. The Animal whined.

  "Too.... much.... noise..... hurtssss....."

  What the hell was happening to me? Was this some kind of… breakdown?

  No. Impossible. Anxiety, mental breakdowns, panic attacks – those were the flimsy excuses of pampered trust-fund kids who'd never known a real hardship, never worried about an empty belly or a cold night under a bridge. My entire life had been a brutal lesson in the fact that "too much" was a luxury I simply couldn't afford. So what was this? Why was even the Animal being so... beaten down. And why did my head not just stop hurting?

  I rested my elbows on my knees, pressing palms hard against my eyes, trying to force some semblance of clarity into the swirling chaos in my head. I felt like I was drowning, the walls of the world closing in, squeezing the very air from lungs that no longer needed air to function. The APC door was shut, the blast shields down, but none of it mattered. The noise outside may have stopped, but inside my skull, an orchestra played.

  I exhaled slowly, dragging my hands down my face, then stared into the absolute blackness of the metal plating.

  What in the goddamn hell was I supposed to do now?