In the basement under the Seventh South Avenue Bar
The gang boss flipped the table in a violent outburst, fury seething through him. Everything was falling apart — the deal was off, his men were being taken down one by one, and escape seemed impossible.
But surrender wasn't in his nature.
Papers littered the basement floor, scattered across crates of contraband. Dim light flickered over syringes, vacuum-sealed drugs, and weapon caches. Sweat dripped from his forehead as he glanced at the flickering monitors — shadowy figures moved like wraiths, dismantling his crew like they were made of paper.
"I won't be taken alive… not by the likes of you," he snarled, teeth clenched, staggering toward the hidden stash behind a false panel.
He yanked it open.
Inside were multiple doses of Compound C — a synthetic combat stimulant banned even by the black market — and a single vial of something labeled Dyrexol. Rumored to be unstable. Lethal in the wrong dosage. Perfect for the desperate.
His hands didn't tremble as he jabbed the needles into his arm and pushed both cocktails into his bloodstream.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then everything did.
A violent shudder coursed through his frame. A guttural scream tore from his throat as his spine arched unnaturally. He collapsed, frothing at the mouth, limbs seizing violently. His vision blurred, heart hammering like a jackhammer in his chest.
"I... have to... show them… the results..." the boss rasped in his mind, clinging to what little remained of his thoughts.
Then the pain… faded.
A terrifying strength surged within him. His muscles thickened grotesquely, veins snaked under his skin like vines, and the whites of his eyes turned a sickening red. His breath came heavy and ragged, but filled with power.
He stood — not a man anymore, but something more. Something monstrous.
"Let the hunters… be hunted," he growled, a wicked grin splitting his twisted face.
With thunderous footsteps, he stormed up the basement stairs — toward the bar, toward whoever dared challenge him.
---
Outside the Seventh South Avenue Bar
Jonathan and Rebecca arrived to a chilling sight.
The street was eerily silent. Bodies of unconscious thugs lay scattered across the concrete, limbs twisted at odd angles. Smoke lingered in the air like a veil of warning, and the stench of scorched alcohol and blood was thick.
Jonathan scanned the aftermath. "What the hell happened here?"
Rebecca narrowed her eyes, her instincts kicking in. "This isn't good."
"You think someone beat us here?" he asked, frowning.
She nodded. "I think the Shadow Corps got here first."
"Shadow Corps?" Jonathan echoed, unfamiliar with the name.
"They're mercenaries. Not part of Nexlark officially — at least, not always," Rebecca said, voice low. "We call them wildcards for a reason."
Jonathan tried to steady his nerves. "If they're with Nexlark, then that's good news, right?"
Rebecca shook her head. "Or they're not. That's the problem."
Jonathan's stomach twisted. "You think someone else hired them?"
"Exactly," she said grimly. "Someone who didn't want this place left standing."
Suddenly, a loud crash shattered the silence.
The sound of breaking glass echoed from inside the bar.
Jonathan and Rebecca ducked by the window. They peeked through the shattered opening and froze.
A hulking figure stood in the bar's center. His body was unnaturally swollen, muscles rippling with every twitch. His torn clothes barely clung to his warped frame. He held one of the shadowy operatives by the collar, hoisting him off the ground.
"Who are you working for?" the brute demanded.
"Not… telling… a thing," the operative spat.
"I know you're Shadow Operators. I want to know your boss!" the brute roared.
Rebecca and Jonathan exchanged a look. Her suspicions were confirmed.
"What now?" Jonathan asked quietly.
"There's no way you can take that guy," Rebecca whispered. "He's overdosed on Compound C… and something else. It's warping him."
Jonathan stared, stunned. "No way…"
He watched in horrified awe as the brute tossed the shadow operative across the room like a doll. Another tried to attack from behind with a blade — slashing deep into the brute's back.
It worked… for a second.
Then the wound began to close.
"He's regenerating," Jonathan murmured.
The brute growled and turned on the second operative, landing a devastating punch straight to the head. A crack echoed out — the operative crumpled instantly.
Seeing the odds turn, the remaining shadow operative threw down a smoke grenade, trying to escape. But the brute wasn't done.
"You're not getting away!" he bellowed.
He lunged into the smoke, snatching the retreating man by the ankle and hurling him into the wall with bone-breaking force. The operative slid down, unmoving.
The brute roared in victory and bent down to rummage through their gear. He found nothing of use — no insignia, no dog tags. Whoever hired them wanted to keep it buried.
Suddenly, he stopped.
He heard whispers.
Outside.
He turned toward the bar's broken window and narrowed his red eyes. His hearing, heightened by the drug, picked up every breath.
With a grunt, he grabbed a heavy barstool and hurled it toward the window.
Jonathan and Rebecca barely ducked in time as the stool shattered the glass. The brute burst through the entrance, landing a few feet away.
"Where do you think you're going?" the brute growled, looming over them like a mountain of muscle and rage.
Jonathan stepped forward, shielding Rebecca with his body. "You'll have to go through me."
The brute's grin widened. "Gladly."