Author's Note:
Thank you all so much for your kind words, support, and condolences, it truly meant a lot to me and helped more than you know. I'm glad to be back and continuing the story with you all.
If you're enjoying the journey so far, I'd really appreciate it if you could take a moment to leave a review on the fanfic. Your feedback helps keep this story going and means the world to me.
Now, on to the chapter!
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[Random Thug POV]
The warehouse air always smelled off, filled with dust, oil, and something rotting just out of sight.
I leaned against a crate, a cigarette burning slowly between my fingers, half-listening to the guys talk trash. They were laughing about some junkie they had tossed out earlier, with Tony doing exaggerated impressions and Jorge losing it like it was the funniest thing he had ever seen.
Then, without warning, everything went silent.
I looked up just in time to see Jorge collapse like a bag of concrete, his head bouncing once against the floor before he went still. I blinked, barely able to process what I was seeing, and then Tony went down as well, his chair flying back with a clatter that echoed through the cavernous warehouse.
A moment later, chaos exploded all around us.
Gunfire erupted from every direction, muzzle flashes strobing wildly against the crates and steel beams. The others were shouting, no, screaming, as they emptied their magazines into the darkness. Someone tried to hit the lights, but they only flickered once before dying completely, plunging the warehouse into deeper shadows.
"What the hell is happening?!" I shouted, ducking lower behind the crate as splinters burst from the wood above my head.
One by one, the gunfire stopped.
It was not because they had run out of ammunition. It was because they were no longer breathing.
The silence that followed was heavier and more terrifying than the gunfire had been.
I did not wait to see who or what was doing this. I turned to run, but I did not even make it three steps.
A bolt of searing pain tore through my knee, white-hot and blinding.
I hit the ground screaming, clutching my leg as blood soaked through the fabric of my jeans. Somewhere in the dark, my gun skidded away across the concrete floor, but I could not bring myself to care.
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[Third Person POV]
Bodies littered the warehouse floor. Some were unconscious, others groaning from broken bones. Only three were dead, the ones who had opened fire with machine guns and thrown away their chance at mercy.
The masked figure moved across the wreckage with careful, surgical precision, each footstep deliberate and silent.
At the back of the warehouse, tucked behind crates and steel shelving, stood a door that led down to the basement. It was thick with rust, reinforced with steel bars bolted across the top and bottom. A keypad lock blinked steadily with a red light.
The masked figure clipped a slim hacking tool into the side of the panel. After a few seconds, the blinking light switched to green with a soft beep.
The heavy door creaked open, just wide enough to slip something through.
From seemingly nowhere, the masked figure produced five small black capsules. They were matte cylinders, each no larger than a salt shaker.
They were knockout bombs. Non-lethal gas weapons loaded with a potent synthetic compound, strong enough to incapacitate a person within seconds, even if inhaled in shallow breaths.
He lobbed them one after another along with two flash bomb through the crack in the door. One, then two, three, four, and finally five. Each capsule bounced softly against the concrete stairs and rolled to a stop.
The faint hiss of leaking gas filled the stairwell.
At first, only muffled shouts rose from below, sharp and confused.
"What the hell is that?" someone barked.
A coughing fit followed, wet and ragged, as if someone were choking on smoke or blood.
Another voice rang out, full of panic and anger, yelling something unintelligible. It was cut off abruptly, the words breaking apart into nothing.
Then came the silence, heavy and complete.
The masked figure stood still, waiting.
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[David's POV]
The air was still thick with the residue from the knockout gas I had tossed into the basement after easing the door open just a crack.
I could hear low groans from below; some were muttered curses, while others were the confused wheezing of men unsure if they were dreaming or dying.
The basement was larger than I had anticipated, a vast open area made from aged stone and reinforced concrete. Crates were piled against the walls, filled with bricks of narcotics encased in shrink wrap and plastic containers of chemical components.
I moved swiftly, navigating through the rows of collapsed bodies sprawled across the floor. Most were unconscious, while a few stirred weakly, their limbs heavy and movements clumsy.
I didn't touch them. They were the workers, the runners, the grunts who followed orders and did what they were told. They were scum, certainly, but not the type I had come to eliminate.
The drugs, however, were a different issue.
I walked through the aisles, crate by crate, transferring the contents into my inventory.
I didn't pause until the last plastic tub had vanished. Then my gaze fixed on the far wall, where a heavy steel door stood sealed.
I moved toward it.
I reached for my lock-picking set, selected two tension tools, and got to work. My fingers moved automatically while my mind remained focused. It took less than a minute before I heard the satisfying click and felt the mechanism yield.
The door creaked open to reveal a small, clean room.
A long desk with a desktop computer, still glowing in sleep mode, stood to the left. The right wall featured a built-in safe, hidden behind a sliding panel that had been left slightly ajar.
I walked over to the safe and knelt down.
There were no bio metrics. Just an old combination lock, reinforced with internal steel bars. I did not need brute force.
Ten minutes passed in silence, broken only by the faint, almost imperceptible clicks of tumblers falling into place.
Then, finally, the lock gave way.
Inside were bundles of crisp cash secured with thick rubber bands, silver bonds neatly organized in a file folder, a matte black pistol with the serial number removed, and two slim, leather-bound ledgers.
Bingo!
I packed everything into my inventory: every dollar, every weapon, and every document.
Lastly I stored the computer too in the inventory.
After inspecting the room and securing the vault, I exited the vault room and closed the door behind me. The air in the basement remained thick with remnants of the knockout gas.
The bodies of the gang members lay scattered across the floor like discarded refuse, twitching slightly as if caught in a dream or drowning in unconsciousness; I couldn't tell, and frankly, I didn't care.
I retraced my steps, scanning the room one final time to ensure I had not missed anything important. As I approached the stairs, I passed the three bodies crumpled near the corridor entrance, slumped in awkward, lifeless heaps.
They were the only ones I had killed.
That should have shaken me. In another life, it would have.
But not now.
Somewhere deep inside, I still understood how wrong that was. A normal man would have been paralyzed after his first kill, curled up in a corner, vomiting, doubting himself, and questioning every moral thread that once held him together.
But me? I only felt a slight hitch in my breath.
Chris Wolff's efficiency, Jason Bourne's cold clarity, Deadshot's lethal decisiveness, and Snake Eyes's precision.
These were no longer just skills. They were becoming part of who I was. They shaped my reflexes, my thoughts, and even my conscience.
And when that realization hit, a chill ran down my spine.
The system had not just given me abilities. It was rewriting me from the inside out.
I shoved the thought aside. This was not the time. I crouched beside the bodies and searched them one last time.
Nothing useful.
I stood, turned, and made my way to the exit through the main floor.
By the time I stepped out into the cool night air, the moon had vanished behind a veil of clouds.
I did not stop walking.
I navigated through alleyways and rooftops, slipping through blind spots with practiced ease.
The tactical mask filtered out the lingering stench of drugs and gunpowder, but the memory of it still clung to my mind.
Three died tonight by my hands.
One voice inside me whispered it was mercy. Another claimed it was pragmatism.
I did not argue with either. I had more souls to send to hell.
Two blocks away, I paused beside an abandoned delivery truck. I removed my gas mask and lowered my balaclava. The air was crisp, laced with the scent of gasoline and rust.
The night breeze swept across the sweat along my jaw as I looked up at the sky.
I know for a fact that taking a life changes you. It reaches inside and rewires something fundamental. I could not tell if I was losing who I used to be or becoming the person I was always meant to become.
Either way, I was not going to stop.
Not now.
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[Third Person POV]
The warehouse reeked of sweat, cigarette smoke, and ink-stained paper. Bundles of cash were being weighed, counted, and packaged on battered wooden tables by careless, ink-streaked hands.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, artificial glow across the cavernous space. Men spoke loudly, played cards, and cleaned weapons with the lazy arrogance of those who believed themselves untouchable.
One by one, David moved through the steel rafters and support beams above like a phantom. His movements made no sound.
Syringes filled with fast-acting anesthetic slipped into throats, armpits, and spines, dropping muscle-bound guards before they even knew they were under attack.
But not every plan unfolds perfectly. And just like that, it happened.
A young gang member, carrying a crate of bundled cash, turned a corner he was not supposed to. His eyes locked onto a figure in tactical black, crouched beside a slumped body near the stairwell. His gasp was sharp and loud.
The cry never finished. A knuckle duster smashed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He collapsed in a heap, unconscious.
But the damage was done.
Seconds later, shouting erupted.
Steel chairs clattered. Men scrambled for weapons. The corridor David had entered was narrow, a choke point he had chosen with purpose. Fools rushed in with shotguns, pistols, bats, and crowbars, only to find themselves bottlenecked.
The first one lunged.
David ducked low and twisted. His fist struck the man's ribs with a sickening crack as the knuckle duster punched through flesh like steel teeth. The man dropped, wheezing.
Another came from behind.
David pivoted. His elbow smashed into the attacker's throat. He spun low and brought his heel down hard, shattering a knee with a single strike.
Bones crunched with relentless precision. Fingers dislocated, elbows shattered, and knees twisted in directions they were never meant to move. The combat calculations raced through David's mind—angles, force, speed—all processed and executed in real time with flawless efficiency.
A gun barrel swung around the corner.
He shifted left, letting the shot scream past. The shooter raised the weapon again, but it was already too late. Two quick steps. A palm struck the wrist. There was a snap. A punch landed in the gut. The pistol clattered to the floor.
More enemies came, six at once this time, yelling curses and trying to flank him.
He moved like a viper.
He leapt and flipped over a stack of crates, landing behind them. Two of them tried to follow but met fists and boot heels in mid-air. One slammed into the wall and did not get up. The other screamed as his wrist snapped in David's grip.
One man drew a machete and charged.
David sidestepped, slammed his elbow down into the man's shoulder, and drove a knee into his chest with enough force to lift him off the ground. The machete clanged against the concrete. David caught it as it fell and threw it away without even looking.
Gunshots sparked along the wall. Someone had managed to fire wildly through the narrow corridor. One round grazed his shoulder, ripping through the fabric of his jacket and slicing his skin.
His eyes flashed red behind the mirrored lenses.
Time slowed.
He dropped to one knee and pulled Lucy and Ombra from his inventory. He aimed with both hands and fired.
Kneecaps. Elbows. Shoulders.
The shooter screamed, spun, and collapsed.
The magazine was running low.
He ejected it mid-spin, caught another from his inventory, and loaded it without ever looking down. Then he raised Ombra. The twin pistols roared in suppressive rhythm.
Every shot struck a joint or a muscle—disabling, never lethal. Arms dropped weapons. Legs buckled beneath the weight of shattered tendons.
When silence returned, the corridor had become a war zone of groans, blood, and limp bodies. David stood at the end of it all, his chest rising and falling beneath the matte jacket, blood from his grazed shoulder running dark down his arm.
To Be Continued...