When Henshaw finally arrived, the scene before him was a startling tableau of defeat. Bruno, the formidable "Honey Badger," lay on the ground, his body seized up in spasms, still twitching from the shock of the electric potion. And there, slumped against the wall, breathing heavily, was Ivan, looking bruised but defiant.
A bead of cold sweat slid down Henshaw's temple. 'Mr. Bruno was… defeated? By him?' The thought was nearly inconceivable. Bruno was supposed to be untouchable, nearly indestructible.
But there was a problem. In the brutal, twisted hierarchy they followed, only the one who claimed the kill personally could gain the rating. Killing Ivan here wouldn't benefit Henshaw; Bruno's prey was Bruno's alone.
Henshaw cast a wary glance at Bruno, then back to Ivan, assessing the situation. Bruno was out cold, and even if he had wanted to rouse him, there was nothing he could do to break through the paralysis. Ivan looked weakened, too, barely hanging on. 'Maybe I can stall him,' Henshaw thought, 'just until Bruno wakes up, or Owens gets free.'
He steadied himself, looking at Ivan with a strange mixture of fear and curiosity. "Who… who are you?" he asked, his voice laced with the coercive force of his magic, a subtle compulsion to elicit truth.
Ivan, eyes half-closed, gave a faint, weary grin. "The… Invincible Mother Hunter."
Henshaw blinked, thrown by the bizarre answer. He couldn't tell if Ivan was mocking him or delirious. "What… what does that even mean?"
"This is it…" Ivan murmured, slipping his right hand into his coat as though reaching for something.
Instinctively, Henshaw's gaze snapped to Ivan's right hand. In that split second, Ivan's left hand whipped up, the pistol already aimed. He squeezed the trigger.
'Bang!'
Blood blossomed across Henshaw's chest as the bullet tore through, sending him staggering back. He crumpled, clutching his wound, his face contorted in pain as he struggled to breathe.
Ivan's hand trembled, his grip on the pistol slackening as his strength waned. He let out a shaky breath, half-laughing, half-gasping. "You know… I never thought I'd take down an 'interrogator' that easily," he muttered, exhaustion evident in his voice. He couldn't quite recall if Henshaw had another spell he hadn't used yet, but he decided it didn't matter. One less enemy standing.
As he allowed himself a moment's rest, he noticed a shadow looming. Glancing up, he saw Owens; the gang's sly "makeup artist" sauntering into the hallway, a casual smile on his face.
Ivan lifted his revolver, though it was empty, hoping to bluff.
Owens raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, his calm, knowing smile never faltering. "Well, well. You've got some fight in you, Ivan," he said, histone light. "But let's not kid ourselves; you're barely hanging on."
"Then get to the point," Ivan replied, keeping the gun steady.
"Fair enough," he said, giving a small chuckle. "You've managed to take down both the Honey Badger and the Interrogator in one night. Impressive. I'll admit, I didn't expect you to last this long… but anyone can see you're at your limit."
He tilted his head, gesturing slightly toward Bruno and Henshaw. "How about a deal?"
Ivan narrowed his eyes, his expression cautious. "What kind of deal?"
Owens leaned against the wall, still smiling that infuriatingly serene smile. "Simple. Honey Badger for you, and Interrogator for me. We each get a trophy, and then we walk away. You're free to leave Bridgewick without us bothering you again. Clean and simple."
Ivan's gaze dropped to Henshaw, who lay on the ground, groaning and writhing in pain but not yet dead. His eyes flicked back to Owens, reading the cold calculation in his gaze. He was willing to betray his own comrades if it meant advancing himself in the gang's cutthroat hierarchy.
"You're… a real piece of work," Ivan muttered.
"A demon? Maybe." Owens shrugged, his smile widening slightly. "In this world, you do what you have to. We all do. So, do we have a deal?"
Ivan hesitated, his mind spinning. Trusting him was risky, but he was exhausted, drained both physically and magically. A fight with him now could be the end of him.
"Fine," he said, exhaling slowly. "We have a deal."
Owens inclined his head in satisfaction. He raised his palms, showing him he had no intentions of attacking, and took a slow step back to signify his compliance.
Ivan gritted his teeth and pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. He couldn't afford to show weakness, not now. Not with Owens watching.
Bruno lay on the floor, still paralyzed, his body limp and vulnerable like a prize waiting to be claimed. Ivan approached him cautiously, his heart pounding as he considered what this meant; he was about to cut down one of the gang's lieutenants. But as he steadied himself, he understood that in their world, survival meant becoming the predator, not the prey.
He raised the blade, aiming carefully. It was time to finish what he'd started.
Ivan took a deep breath, steadying his hands as he pulled the bone awl from his storage space. He gripped it tightly, positioning himself over Bruno's still body, aiming the sharp point at his neck. With swift, deliberate thrusts, he drove the awl down again and again, each jab more precise than the last, like he was chiseling through ice.
Finally, after a few tense moments, his hand wrapped around a rounded, heavy object; Bruno's head. Warm, dark-red blood dripped slowly from the severed neck, soaking into the plush carpet of the café. The sight was both grim and surreal, but Ivan forced himself to stay calm, focused.
A faint chime echoed in his mind as his system prompt activated:
[A wandering spirit has lost its home.]
[It has been attracted by you.]
[New formula acquired: Strong and Hard Skin Hardener.]
[Your rating has improved!]
[Philosopher: 2D.]
Ivan barely glanced at the prompts. His instincts told him the danger wasn't over yet, and now was hardly the time to savor his newfound power. He cast a wary glance down the hallway, where Owens stood, watching him with a faint smirk.
"Wait," Owens called out, raising a hand in an oddly peaceful gesture.
Ivan paused, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He watched as Owens reached into his coat and produced three small booklets, extending them toward him.
"Your ID," he said, his smile unsettlingly calm.
Ivan accepted the documents, slipping them into his coat pocket without breaking eye contact. He gave him a slight nod, conveying a silent understanding. "Thanks," he said, his tone neutral.
Owens smiled wider. "You're welcome."
Without another word, Ivan turned and began making his way down the stairs, each step careful and deliberate. He wasn't in a hurry; he knew better than to show any hint of vulnerability in front of her.
As his footsteps faded, Owens knelt beside Henshaw, who lay on the floor, his eyes filled with disbelief and betrayal. He tilted his head, his gaze soft but mocking.
"Don't worry," he murmured, "I won't be taking your fat. You should be grateful that Ivan prefers blunt methods like guns and spikes."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek pistol, screwing a silencer onto the barrel with quiet precision. "In honor of our friend's style, I'll use something… similar."
Henshaw's eyes widened in horror as Owens raised the gun to his forehead, his smile never faltering.
…
Downstairs, the café was eerily quiet. The chandelier was off, leaving the room shrouded in darkness, save for the faint glow of streetlights outside. Ivan stepped carefully, only the barista remaining behind the counter, watching him with calm, unblinking eyes.
"I'm not a wizard," the barista said, his tone even. "I'm just here to follow orders."
Ivan nodded, assessing him for a moment. He believed him.
"You got a clean handkerchief?" Ivan asked, feeling the sting of glass shards embedded in his hand. "Need something to stop the bleeding."
The barista nodded, reaching under the counter and handing over a white handkerchief.
Ivan pressed the cloth to his hand, tying it tightly to stanch the blood. He glanced out the window and noticed a line of cars pulling up, headlights illuminating the street as men in black suits spilled out, weapons drawn.
He sighed, reloading his pistol, each movement precise despite the sharp pain radiating from his ribs. The effects of the rooster blood were still strong, masking some of the pain, but he could feel the damage from his brutal fight with Bruno; the ache of fractured ribs, the bruising that throbbed with every breath.
'If Bruno had a gun, I'd be dead by now,' he thought, almost amused. 'Lucky for me, he relied too much on his fists.'
He downed another vial of rooster blood, feeling its warmth spread through his chest, dulling the pain and giving him a small boost of strength.
The barista watched him with a mix of awe and caution, as though he wanted to ask a question but couldn't bring himself to speak.
Ivan noticed the look and smirked. "There's a saying back home in Russia," he said. "If you're not afraid of people, people will be afraid of you."
The barista blinked, giving him a nod of respect.
Outside, the café was now surrounded, the headlights casting harsh beams through the windows, flooding the dark interior with blinding light. Ivan could see shadows moving, men positioning themselves with weapons raised, each movement careful and controlled.
Through the haze of headlights, a figure emerged; a man with deep-set eyes, his face hard and emotionless. He walked toward the café with a steady, confident gait, each step purposeful, like a predator closing in on wounded prey.
Ivan took a deep breath, steadying himself, pistol ready. The battle wasn't over yet.