Content Warning
This chapter contains scenes with sexual violence and graphic descriptions that may be triggering or uncomfortable for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Obinna's POV
I crept through the shadows. The dark and wide loft was suffocating, and numerous thick pipes extended from the edges of the roof, partially making my movement harder.
Yes, partially, because even that was nothing to me.
I moved like a phantom with stealthy steps, making somersaults and jumps while landing on the ceiling with light movements.
I could hear the sounds from the room below me—the sound of men betting cards over champagne. I could hear the erotic noises from women as the men played around with them.
These men below me were some of the most dangerous in the world. The Mafia Lords of Geneva.
And I get to kill one of them.
I grinned.
I made a mental blueprint of the building, and I could feel it—I was getting close. Close to the office of my prey.
Moving steadily now, I stopped. I was here.
I could hear some low voices below, but I caught them with my acute hearing. I recognized one of them—the voice of my target, the merchant of blood, Fernard Vamoz.
I couldn't help but grin wider. From here, things were about to get exciting. I reached into my strapped bag and pulled out a compact, battery-powered saw. Its blade gleamed faintly in the dim light, promising mayhem.
I closed my eyes for a moment, tuning into the rhythm of the room below. His voice—a gravelly rasp, soaked in arrogance—gave away his position. I mapped the layout in my mind and calculated the perfect spot on the mahogany ceiling.
Right above his head. There was no better aim than that.
Sure, it might get me noticed. His bodyguards could finally decide to be useful. But honestly? I wanted them to notice. Stealth was boring. Exposure just made things... entertaining.
I wasn't just an assassin. I was a psychopath, and I knew it. The thrill wasn't in the kill—it was in the moment their eyes met mine, brimming with despair. That familiar, delicious despair. I lived for the look on their faces as they realized their end was wrapped in a grin.
My grin.
I flicked on the saw, the soft hum vibrating through my fingertips. Slowly, deliberately, I pressed it to the ceiling, savoring the resistance as the blade bit into the wood.
Please notice me. Notice me, please. The chant looped in my mind, a maddening mantra.
But no one did.
Despite the splinters raining from above, despite my less-than-stealthy approach, the bodyguards didn't so much as glance up. I clicked my tongue in frustration. Amateurs. A five-year-old with a plastic sword could do a better job than this lot.
Still, I couldn't help but smirk. In the end, I'd expose myself anyway. I wasn't right in the head, and I owned it.
The hole was now fist-sized, and I peered through. There he was—my target. He leaned back in his chair, a fat cigar smoldering between his fingers, talking to someone across the table. His voice grated on my nerves, the way nails grating a chalkboard might to someone sane.
I hated him already. Was this what they called hate at first sight?
The limited view through the hole didn't give me much, but it was enough. I noted the room's layout and the positions of the other guards, who, predictably, were about as sharp as a spoon.
I sighed softly. The thrill was fading. His very existence was irritating, and the mission itself felt unworthy of me now. I raised my dagger, ready to finish this tiresome affair.
And then—a knock.
I froze, my interest rekindled. Something was about to change.
"Come in," Fernard's deep voice boomed around the office.
The door clicked open. "You called for me, sir," I heard a feminine voice.
"All of you except the bitch should leave," Fernard commanded, and I could feel his predatory eyes fixed on whoever this lady was.
I had a rather vague idea of where this was going.
I heard a lot of movement in the office followed by the closing of the door. I sensed the lady make some nervous movements.
Hmm, interesting. She didn't want to be here.
Fernard stood up, keeping his cigar on his desk and stretching his well-toned and muscled arms. "Get on all fours like a whore, bitch," he said. I could see the smirk on his face.
I heard some gasps followed by the pushing of the door. I guess it was locked. Fernard must have some really "efficient" subordinates.
"Fernard, you can't do this," I heard the desperate voice of the lady. "Marco won't take this lightly. I am his property. You will cause a war."
"So now you can call me by my name," I saw his smirk widen. "It's all good because by the time I am done widening your pussy, that will be all you will keep screaming."
"Please," I heard her beg and pull at the door some more, but Fernard was already moving.
There were few reasons why I wouldn't do anything. First, I was no hero, and I bet this was no innocent lady. Her and the Marco dude must have gone the long way, so she could handle this like an expert.
I grinned. The most important reason? How cool would I look when I made my entrance right in the middle of their "battle"?
Now this was what I was talking about—an entrance only befitting a king like me.
The screams of the lady pulled me out of my thoughts. There was a scuffle followed by the tearing of clothes.
The screams stopped, and the next thing I heard were the slapping sounds, followed by the low grunts of Fernard and the loud moans of the lady.
Well, what can I say? A whore is a whore through and through.
I laughed loudly. The slapping sounds stopped—they must have heard, but I didn't care. I was just happy. Happy for the entertainment, happy for the excitement that coursed through me.
I hit the mahogany below me repeatedly with a thud, the wood breaking into splinters as I descended into the room. The ground was many feet below, but I kept my balance and landed elegantly.
I beheld the both of them in all their naked glory, the shocked look on their faces a priceless sight.
I greeted my two star actors with the brightest smile I could possibly muster.
Fernard seemed to recover from his shock first. "Intruder!" he screamed, his voice turning hoarse from the effort.
"Tch," I muttered, sliding the GraviLock from my strapped bag with deliberate ease. The sleek, disc-shaped device gleamed faintly in the dim light, humming softly as though it knew chaos was about to ensue.
The door slammed open, and more than a dozen men stormed in like a tidal wave of rage. Their eyes locked on me, their intentions as clear as the muzzles of their guns. No time for warnings. No time for talk. They opened fire.
The GraviLock sprang to life in my hands, buzzing with an almost sentient energy. A blue halo erupted from its surface, expanding outward like a shield from a forgotten age. Bullets tore through the air, but just inches from me, their paths veered unnaturally, twisting like metal serpents toward the disc. The GraviLock absorbed each one with a faint metallic clang, a hauntingly final sound.
The room fell into stunned silence as the men froze, their eyes wide with disbelief. Some hesitated, lowering their weapons, while others just stared as if trying to rewrite reality in their minds.
I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. "Yeah," I said, my tone dripping with satisfaction, "it's as good as it looks."
The GraviLock wasn't just a gadget—it was a masterpiece. A German genius—Heinrich... something or other—had engineered it as the ultimate anti-bullet device. Every shot, every ounce of metal within its range bowed to its magnetic will. It didn't matter if the bullets were magnetic or not; the GraviLock had a way of bending the rules, pulling in anything with metal like some omniscient deity of steel and iron.
Weapons like this didn't belong in the hands of just anyone. Governments had buried the tech deep, afraid of the world it could unleash. Imagine waking up one morning to a world where lasers replaced bullets and battles became something entirely new. The balance would shatter.
So, how did a weapon like this end up in my hands?
Simple. I stole it.
"Monster," one of the men called me.
I didn't have the strength to explain to the man that this was all some bullshit technology. Some of them must have guessed anyway. Also, they would all die in a few seconds, so telling this to dead men was useless.
Some of the men tried to leave through the door. I scoffed. Such loose loyalty.
"Bastards, what are you doing? If guns aren't working, use your fists, idiots!" Fernard screamed, looking weird in all his nudity. The lady was silently by the corner, shivering her guts out. At least she now had some clothes on.
"No one leaves," I said, my smile sharp as a blade. From my fingers, five slender Shade Spikes arced through the air, gleaming like shards of death.
The men scrambling for the door didn't stand a chance. Five bodies collapsed in unison, lifeless before they hit the ground. Crimson rivulets spilled across the floor, a silent testament to the precision of my aim.
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
I let the moment linger, savoring the raw terror etched into their faces. It was a look I knew too well—the one that fueled me, made me feel alive. Despair. Confusion. Unrelenting fear.
But fear does strange things to people. It strips them of reason, leaving behind raw, primal instincts. And I knew exactly what came next.
They surged toward me like a pack of desperate animals, brandishing daggers, short knives, even makeshift weapons ripped from the chaos of the room. Office chairs, shards of broken glass—anything they thought might stop me.
Their fury was laughable.
I moved like a phantom, slipping through their attacks with fluid elegance. Their blades found only air as I danced among them, my smile never faltering. One by one, I sent the Shade Spikes flying, each finding its mark with merciless precision.
The room descended into a symphony of screams, cut short by the inevitable silence of death.
When it was over, the office was a macabre masterpiece. Bodies lay crumpled in grotesque angles, their blood painting the floor in dark, glistening strokes.
Only two figures remained: a shivering woman pressed against the wall, and Fernard, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Fernard began crawling toward the door, and I felt disgusted because the stupid guy still hadn't put on any clothes.
But this gave me a lot of options while torturing him, didn't it?
Ignoring the woman, I walked toward Fernard with a smile.
Fernard shivered.
"Aym showy (I am sorry)," Fernard said, his face filled with tears and snot.
"Oh, poor Fernard," I told him, touching his sweaty face with my gloved hands and pulling him by the hair.
I couldn't help but laugh out loud in excitement.
I struck the hilt of my dagger into one of his eyes. Fernard howled.
"Does it hurt, Fernard?" I asked, my voice concerned while my smile didn't wear off. "Let's try again, Fernard. I promise the next one won't hurt as much."
From there on, the room became filled with the sounds of Fernard's screams and my roaring laughter.
-----
Walking into the broad streets of Los Angeles, I took out my phone and called the Enigma.
"Mission accomplished," I said, leaning against a lamppost.
"Rest for a while. Tomorrow you hunt again," he replied, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. Then he cut the line.
I clicked my tongue. You better watch your back, bastard. I might just hunt you instead.
Almost immediately, I received another call. The screen displayed Matthew's name.
"Hey, dawg," I greeted, sitting under a fast-food stall where hamburgers were sold. Good timing—I was famished.
"The forensics are out," Matthew said, his voice tense.
I raised an eyebrow, taking a bite of the hamburger. This was bad news. And how do I know? Matthew had a phobia for delivering bad news. If it wasn't bad, he wouldn't sound this hesitant.
I sighed.
"We both know that whether it was her dad or not in the video, they were going to pull this crap. The Storms are the kings of the underworld, and they're becoming too powerful. That's enough to make all the world powers restless. They just want an excuse to go to war and nip a potential threat in the bud," I said, swallowing a mouthful of the hamburger.
"I know that," Matthew replied, his voice irritated. "But it doesn't make it easier to accept. Whatever those motherfuckers are doing is affecting someone special to me."
"Look, dude, you're like a big brother to all of us, but I think you should cool off, man," I said, speaking through a mouthful. "You're too powerless to change anything, so don't try carrying something way above your league on your shoulders. You're not a god."
I heard him take a deep breath. "You're right," he admitted. "Tell the news to the rest of them. Catch you later."
"Hey, why me?" I scowled.
"I hate conveying bad news."
"Doesn't mean I like to."
"What's that? What did you say? Sorry, can't hear you all the way here in Antarctica. I guess even the damn cold can freeze the network now. Thanks for the favor, dawg."
The call ended.
Asshole.
I texted Luke first. I admit—even I was scared of telling the news to Ada. If anyone could get it done, it would be Luke. His playboy charms always did the trick.
After that, I texted Aisha. Then I turned back to the hamburger.
"You're so not escaping today, poor ham-ham."