BAM!
The sound of metal meeting flesh reverberated through the vast, empty basement... a hollow, sickening echo that seemed to linger in the damp air. The basement had long been abandoned, its cracked concrete walls and rusted pipes bearing silent witness to the violence unfolding within. The dim light from a single hanging bulb swayed ever so slightly, casting shifting shadows across the grimy floor.
BAM! BAM!
Another blow. Harder this time. The force sent a fresh splatter of red ichor from the mouth of the battered figure hanging upside down. His legs were bound tightly by thick rope looped around a rusted ceiling beam, leaving his head to dangle just inches above the stained ground. Blood trickled down his face, painting his features in dark streaks, but he did not scream. His swollen lips barely parted as he exhaled raggedly through his nose, his ribs rising and falling with labored breaths.
BAM!
The iron rod crashed into him again, sending his body swinging slightly, but still, no cry of pain, no plea for mercy. Just the dull sound of flesh breaking under force.
The one delivering the beating was a young man clad in a black suit.. He breathed heavily, his grip tightening around the metal pipe. His black tie hung loose around his neck, drenched in sweat, the top button of his shirt undone. Strands of his slicked-back hair had come undone, falling over his forehead as he took another step forward. His knuckles, wrapped tightly around the iron, flexed.
He raised his arm once more, muscles tensing, eyes filled with focused brutality.
"That's enough."
A deep, gravelly voice cut through the room like a blade, stopping the young man mid-swing.
The heavy metal door of the basement groaned as it swung open. Footsteps followed, measured, deliberate. The young man stiffened immediately, his grip loosening slightly as he turned toward the entrance.
Stepping into the dim light was a figure who commanded instant authority. The man was old, but not frail.. his weathered face bore the lines of a life spent in power, his sharp, calculating eyes gleaming beneath a thick brow. He wore a black coat, draped over crisp white sleeves and trousers. His every step carried the weight of silent menace, the kind that needed no loud displays to assert dominance.
Dun.
A name whispered in hushed, fearful voices across the underworld. The leader of the Ground Hogs faction, a syndicate notorious for smuggling artificial enhancement drugs to superhumans called Vagans. But those drugs were no miracle. They granted strength, yes, but they also gnawed at the user's insides, a slow and merciless poison disguised as power. And Dun? He was the mastermind behind it all.
A $65,000,000 bounty sat on his head.
Tarl.. the young man with the iron rod, immediately straightened, giving a slight bow as he stepped aside.
"Boss," he greeted, his voice steadier than his pulse.
Dun barely acknowledged him with a nod, his gaze shifting instead to the upside-down man.
"Still hasn't talked, huh?"
Tarl swallowed. "No… Not a single word, Boss." His fingers twitched, nervously gripping the cold metal pipe. "I've been at it for over three hours. He hasn't broken."
Dun exhaled slowly, a sound more thoughtful than irritated.
Then, after a pause..
"You did check if he's a Vagan first, didn't you?"
Tarl nodded immediately. "Yes, Boss. Thoroughly. No signs of him being one."
Dun didn't respond right away. He merely stood there, unmoving, his presence pressing down on the room like an unseen weight. Tarl, despite himself, resisted the urge to shift under that gaze. The tension in the air thickened, the silence stretching long enough to be suffocating.
"Bring me a chair," Dun muttered.
Without hesitation, Tarl turned on his heel, quickly making his way toward the far corner of the basement. There, among scattered crates and broken furniture, he found an old wooden chair. It creaked slightly as he lifted it, dust falling from its edges.
Returning swiftly, he placed it near the tied man, positioning it carefully before stepping back.
Dun lowered himself into the chair with an air of calm ease, his movements intentional, refined. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, and observed the battered man with a quiet intense stare.
Reaching into his coat, he retrieved a thick, dark brown cigar... expensive, the kind only men of power indulged in.
Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled deeply, savoring the scent before lowering it. He tapped it lightly against his palm, his eyes never leaving the upside-down man.
Finally, he spoke.
"Tell me where the Veritile Liquid is… and I'll make your death painless."
The upside-down man, battered and beaten beyond recognition, didn't respond. His skin was a testament of deep purple bruises and torn flesh, his lips cracked, his breath rattling. Blood dripped from his split mouth, staining the cold concrete beneath him. He should have been begging by now.. pleading, cursing, something. But he remained silent, his eyes shut, as if savoring each moment of torment like a fine-aged whiskey.
Dun watched him, unreadable. There was no anger in his expression, no frustration at the lack of response. He simply flicked his fingers in a subtle motion.
Tarl understood.
With a firm grip, he raised the iron rod again. The cold weight of it felt natural in his palm, an extension of his will....
BAM!
The rod struck flesh. The force sent a fresh spray of red onto the floor.
BAM! BAM!
The third blow landed square against the man's ribs, the sickening crack of bone filling the space. Blood bubbled up from his lips as he coughed, his chest heaving. But instead of a groan, a sound rippled through the basement.. low at first, then rising. A chuckle.
A laugh.
Tarl froze.
The laughter was hoarse, broken, but it carried a strange rhythm, almost like a song. The man's swollen lips curled, revealing bloodstained teeth.
"You're all in trouble… in trouble… in trouble," he sang between ragged breaths. His voice was light, almost playful. "You're all in trouble… when my Boss gets you!"
Tarl's grip on the rod tightened. His heart pounded, the heat of adrenaline rising. This man hadn't spoken a word since they dragged him here. Now he was laughing?
Dun's reaction was different.
He smiled. A slow, knowing smile.
"Your boss?" Dun echoed, amusement lacing his tone. His chuckle was deep, dark, a sound that carried weight. "You mean that damn woman who calls herself the Boss of The Endbringer?"
Dun leaned back slightly, his black coat shifting with the movement.
"The same woman who can't even protect herself from falling ill?" He let out a full laugh this time, shaking his head. "What's she going to do? Assassinate me with a sickness?"
Tarl joined in, a mocking laugh slipping past his lips. The absurdity of it all.
But then...
Ptuh!
A wet sound.
Dun's face didn't change, but a dark stain glistened on his cheek. A mixture of blood and spit.
Tarl's breath hitched. His fingers instinctively reached into his pocket, pulling out a crisp white handkerchief. He extended it forward with both hands, a silent offering.
Dun took it without a word.
Slowly, deliberately, he wiped his cheek. He folded the handkerchief neatly after, his motions calm, calculated. Then, without turning back,
"Kill him. He's no use to us."
His voice carried no emotion. Just a statement of fact.
Dun turned, his polished shoes clicking softly against the concrete as he took his first step toward the exit.
He never got to take the second.
The basement door burst open.
A man stumbled inside, his breath ragged, chest heaving as though he had sprinted through hell itself. His shirt was damp with sweat, the sleeves rolled sloppily up his arms. Panic clung to him like a second skin.
"Boss!" he gasped, almost tripping over his own feet as he reached Dun.
Dun stopped. His gaze shifted, studying the man carefully.
Tingnim.
One of his most reliable informants.
But right now, the man looked anything but reliable.
Tingnim's hands trembled as he clutched a tablet to his chest. His breathing was erratic, his words spilling out in fragments.
"The… Huff… the huff…" He sucked in a desperate breath.
"The warehouses."
Dun's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What about them?"
Tingnim swallowed hard.
"They're gone, Boss." His voice cracked. "All of them. Destroyed. Tonight."
A cold stillness settled over the room.
Tarl stiffened, the iron rod in his grip forgotten. Even the upside-down man.. bleeding, broken tilted his head slightly, as if curious.
Dun's face remained unreadable. But if one looked closely, if one knew him well enough.. they would see it.
A flicker. A faint, almost imperceptible shift.
Shock.
His warehouses. All of them.
He exhaled slowly, measured.
"Who did it?" His voice was calm. Too calm.
Tingnim, still gasping for air, fumbled with the tablet in his hands. His fingers were slick with sweat as he swiped at the screen. The device was linked to the main security system of Dun's private estate. A direct feed to the front entrance of the estate..
The tablet let out a small chime as the screen refreshed.
And then, something changed in Tingnim's face.
His face went deathly pale.
His lips parted, but no words came out.
Dun's gaze sharpened. Without waiting, he extended his hand. Tingnim obeyed without hesitation, placing the tablet in his boss's palm.
Dun lowered his eyes to the screen.
Three figures stood at the front of his estate.
Two men in black suits. Stiff, motionless. Their presence was secondary.
The real focus was the woman between them.
She stood tall, clad in a black furry coat that draped over her shoulders, a black crop top beneath it, and baggy trousers that made her stance look casual, effortlessly confident. Her black hair fell to her shoulders, her bangs slightly covering the sleek, dark shades that hid her eyes.
She was familiar. Yet not.
Dun's mind moved like a machine, shifting through old memories, faces, connections.
Then... It clicked.
"Daly."
The name came unbidden. The woman on screen, she resembled Daly. The Endbringer's Boss. But that wasn't possible. Daly was ill, dying.
Then he remembered something. A distant whisper of information.
Daly had a child.
A daughter.
"Gina."
Dun exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly.
Why is she here?, He thought, his breath steady. She was supposed to be abroad… beyond the walls….
His thoughts were cut short.
On the screen, Gina moved.
She lifted her hand. Slowly.
Then, with intentional patience, she removed her dark-shaded glasses.
Red.
Her eyes gleamed, a deep, rich crimson, glowing faintly like the moon at its peak.
She smiled.
Her lips parted slightly, revealing a hint of teeth.
She tilted her head, playful.
"Knock, knock."
Her voice was smooth. Almost teasing.
"You have a delivery."
Her right hand rose higher.
Something dangled from her grip.
A shape.
Round.
Dun stared.
And then he saw it.
The features. The blood.
Recognition struck like a bullet to the chest.
It wasn't just any head.
It was his son's.
The basement, once filled with blood and laughter, fell into a silence colder than death itself....