The air was thick with tension. Fifty men stood in tight formation, their guns trained on the elevator door. Ethan Bishop, seated in his command center, watched the CCTV feed with laser focus. The elevator began its slow ascent, each floor ticking by like a countdown to the inevitable confrontation.
"Steady," Ethan whispered to himself, his heart pounding against his ribcage. His plan was simple: overwhelm the attacker with sheer numbers. No one could possibly take down fifty armed men. But as the elevator doors slid open, and the barrage of gunfire erupted, something felt off.
For fifteen deafening seconds, bullets tore into the empty elevator. Only then did the captain notice—there was no one inside.
"Cease fire!" the captain barked.
Ethan's voice cracked through the comms, panic creeping in. "Where is he? I saw him enter the elevator!"
"I don't know, Sir. He's not in there. It's empty."
"That's impossible. Are you sure you didn't vaporize him?" Ethan spat, frustration growing.
The captain moved cautiously toward the elevator, his men flanking him. "Moving in to check, Sir. But something's off."
As they inched closer, a soft clink echoed from within the elevator, like metal rolling on metal. The captain's eyes widened in realization, but it was too late. A flashbang grenade tumbled out of the elevator, detonating with a blinding light and ear-splitting bang.
Chaos erupted. The fifty men staggered, clutching their heads, disoriented and blinded.
From above, the assailant swung down from the roof of the elevator, landing silently amidst the confusion. He had been hiding there all along, waiting for the perfect moment. His Escrima sticks gleamed in his hands, and before the first man could react, he unleashed hell.
With the fluidity of a shadow, he darted through the disoriented men, slamming the sticks into ribs, jaws, and throats. One by one, they crumpled, gasping for air, disarmed and defenceless. Smoke bombs hissed as they exploded around him, filling the room with thick, choking clouds.
Ethan, watching in horror from the feed, felt cold sweat drip down his back. "How strong is the door?" he muttered, his voice cracking with fear. His assistant was quick to respond.
"Sir, it's made of solid titanium. Impossible to break down."
Ethan's eyes flicked back to the screen, where the assailant was a blur of motion, tearing through his men like they were nothing. He spun, ducked, and struck, leaving behind broken bodies in his wake.
The feed zoomed in as the assailant stopped amidst the carnage, the only one left standing. Everyone else was either unconscious or groaning in pain, unable to move.
The assailant turned toward the nearest CCTV camera, his piercing eyes locking with Ethan's through the lens. Without a word, he flung his Escrima stick directly at the camera. The feed shattered into static.
Ethan shot to his feet, the cold chill of terror gripping his chest. "Get the choppers! Now!" he screamed, his voice trembling.
"Sir, the door's secure. He can't—"
"There's no door, no security that can hold that monster!" Ethan interrupted, his words drenched in fear.
The moment Ethan's men opened the exit door, the assailant burst through like a force of nature. His assault was swift, precise. Every guard who stepped forward was knocked aside like a ragdoll, their bodies crumpling to the floor. Ethan's inner circle, his most elite team, was dismantled in a matter of seconds.
Ethan felt his legs tremble, a warm sensation spreading down his pants. He had wet himself, but he was too terrified to care. His eyes darted around, searching for an escape, but there was none.
The assailant, his presence as heavy as death itself, walked toward him. Slow, methodical steps, like the inevitable approach of a predator. He grabbed Ethan by the collar, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The first punch landed hard, the second even harder. Ethan's head snapped back, blood pouring from his mouth as his vision blurred. Each strike was merciless, precise, treating Ethan's body like a training dummy.
Ethan's pleas for mercy were lost in the sound of fists connecting with bone. He cried out, desperate, his voice hoarse. "Please… please stop… I'll give you anything! Please!"
The beating paused for the briefest of moments. Ethan's vision was swimming, his face a mask of pain and blood.
"Seraphina Chase," Ethan wheezed, his voice barely audible. "I can fix it…"
The room fell deathly silent. The assailant's hand froze mid-punch. His grip loosened, and for the first time, there was hesitation in his cold, murderous gaze.
Seraphina Chase.
Ethan's broken form slid from the assailant's grasp, crumpling to the floor in a heap. The silence was deafening as the assailant stepped back, a storm brewing in his eyes.
"Fix it? How?"