Amanda lay unconscious inside the trunk.
Her knees bore fresh scrapes, the skin torn and darkened with bruises where she had struck the ground before being dragged inside. A rope wound tightly around her wrists and ankles, biting so deep that the flesh puffed against its coarse bite. The knot was deliberate, the kind that wasn't meant to come loose without tearing skin away. Every lurch of the car sent her body sliding, her head striking the steel interior with a hollow thud.
The air was stagnant and suffocating. A faint metallic tang lingered—the smell of rust, gasoline, and something sharper, like copper. The trunk wasn't built for people; it was built to carry things. And tonight, Amanda had become just that: cargo, stripped of dignity, locked away, swallowed whole by steel. Her breaths were shallow, weak, barely audible in the dead space.
From the outside, no one would know she was there. No screams, no pounding. Just silence.
Their family—once steady, once built on grit and the hope of survival—had collapsed in the space of minutes. Dreams that had taken years to nurture now lay scattered like broken glass. The world of crime had reached into their lives, ripping away every fragile sense of safety, and left only ruin.
Even if Hunter had escaped Liu Xiang tonight—if by some miracle he had pushed past that monstrous figure and his army of loyal hounds. The world beyond Liu Xiang was worse. The system itself was corrupted, a system designed to protect the crime syndicates and crush anyone foolish enough to stand against them. Hunter was no outlaw; he was a man cornered by giants who controlled everything—money, law, government, power.
But… was that the truth? Or was Hunter's shadowed past darker than even anyone knew? Vanessa had ordered Liu Xiang to capture Hunter alive. Alive, not dead. Why? If Hunter was just another desperate man, why risk it? What secret did he carry that made the syndicates hesitate?
Meanwhile, at Hunter's house, chaos reigned.
The once-quiet street now swarmed with flashing red and blue lights. Sirens echoed through the night like a dirge, a mourning hymn for the dead. The air was thick with the smell of blood and gasoline, mixed with the metallic bite of gunpowder that hadn't yet faded. Yellow police tape stretched across the perimeter, fluttering in the wind like a warning to anyone who dared to step closer.
Neighbors stood huddled at the edges, faces pale, some sobbing openly while others whispered in shaken voices. Children clung to their parents' legs, trembling, too young to understand but old enough to feel the dread pressing down on the entire block.
The body was still there. Wrapped in thick plastic, motionless, cold. Forensics officers moved carefully around it, cameras flashing, gloves snapping, their faces set in grim professionalism. But beneath that surface, even they looked uneasy.
A curfew had already been declared. Houston itself was on edge, the city's veins suddenly clotted with fear.
Minutes later, the low purr of an approaching engine drew every gaze. A sleek black Mercedes rolled into view, its polish gleaming beneath the streetlamps like the shadow of a predator. When the doors opened, two figures emerged—Victoria and Dani, both draped in long coats, badges glinting faintly beneath the flashing lights. They wore their authority like armor, though their eyes betrayed the weight of exhaustion that never truly left them.
Victoria covered her nose as she stepped past the tape, her gaze landing on the covered body.
"What do you think?" she muttered, her voice strained. "Which monster could've done this?"
Dani crouched low, eyes scanning the ground, studying the splatter patterns as though reading a story written in blood. He answered without looking up.
"It's not about who, Victoria. It's about how. Someone committed this in the middle of a crowded street, right under everyone's nose. That doesn't happen unless you're protected… unless you're connected to a syndicate."
Victoria groaned and rolled her eyes, though the lines of tension on her face betrayed her agreement.
"Not this crime syndicate shit again. How long do we have to keep licking their asses?"
Dani stood, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. His smile was weary, but his tone was cool.
"Until the day we stop getting paid. Until the day we stop breathing. That's the game, partner."
Victoria exhaled bitterly, almost a laugh, almost a curse.
"Fucking democracy."
Before Dani could respond, the crowd stirred.
Through the sea of flashing lights and murmuring voices, a figure forced her way forward—a girl, young, tall, her short hair wild with the wind. She was dressed in a red top and a black navy skirt, her steps frantic, her tears already streaming down her cheeks.
Lexi Storm.
Hunter's girlfriend.
Her arrival was a storm in itself, raw emotion tearing through the ordered chaos of the scene. She shoved past the barriers, nearly breaking through before three officers rushed to restrain her. Her voice cracked the night like glass shattering.
"Let me go! That's my boyfriend! Let me the fucking go!"
She struggled like a wild animal, kicking, clawing at the officers' arms, her sobs breaking into shrieks of desperation. The bystanders froze, pity etched into their faces, but no one dared interfere.
One of the female officers stepped in quickly, wrapping her arms around Lexi in a firm embrace, trying to calm the storm.
"We can't let you in," the officer whispered firmly. "It's a crime scene. Please—calm down."
Lexi's resistance faltered for only a heartbeat, her cries collapsing into words that barely carried.
"But… it's my fucking boyfriend," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Let me in… let me see him… is he safe? Please, just tell me what the hell happened!"
The officer held her tighter, her face softening with pity. Her reply came in a low, trembling whisper, the kind of voice used only for the gravest truths.
"You wouldn't want to see it."
Lexi froze, her eyes wide with horror, her screams falling silent. The night around her seemed to close in, crushing her beneath the weight of dread.
The river below whispered like a dark abyss, swallowing the last ripples of Hunter's plunge. The splash had barely faded when every head turned back toward the bridge. Silence hung for only a breath—then every pair of eyes settled on Ryan.
The traitor.
A hundred armed men fanned into a circle, steel-toed boots scraping against the concrete. Their snarls grew louder than the restless current below, hatred boiling in their throats. Baseball bats, steel pipes, machetes—anything that promised pain was raised into the orange glow of the streetlamps. None drew their firearms yet. Guns were too merciful. They wanted Ryan to suffer.
He straightened slowly, breathing ragged, his shirt clinging with sweat and blood. The bruises on his jaw and ribs ached, but his gaze burned like an ember refusing to die. He knew what they intended. To crush him bone by bone until nothing remained.
Ryan licked the blood from the corner of his mouth and let out a hoarse laugh.
"What the hell are you waiting for?" he spat, spreading his arms wide. "Come earn your pay, cowards."
The horde surged.
The first bat swung down, cracking the air. Ryan ducked, his body moving with animal sharpness, and drove his elbow into the wielder's sternum. Bone snapped like brittle wood; the man's scream was cut short as blood gurgled up his throat. Ryan ripped the bat from limp fingers and spun with it, shattering the kneecap of another charging guard. A howl erupted, followed by the thud of flesh collapsing on concrete.
But there was no pause. Ten more came.
A pipe clanged against Ryan's shoulder; pain ripped through him but he twisted with the blow, redirecting its momentum. His knee shot upward, smashing cartilage and sending teeth rattling across the bridge. Another bat came from behind—Ryan dropped low, sweeping his leg in a brutal arc. The attacker's shin crunched grotesquely, the limb bending the wrong way as the man toppled into the screaming pile.
Blood already painted the ground.
The circle tightened.
Ryan's fists blurred, relentless, cracking jaws, bursting lips, breaking noses. Each strike landed with a sound more like meat being butchered than combat. His movements were honed chaos—ducking, weaving, striking, killing. For every man that fell, three more replaced him, boots splashing through the growing pools of blood.
A machete caught his arm, slicing a deep line that spilled warmth down to his wrist. He didn't flinch. Instead, he roared and drove his forehead into the attacker's nose, splitting it flat against his skull. The machete clattered free; Ryan seized it and carved a ruthless arc across another man's chest, spilling him open.
Screams echoed over the river.
Men fell into the water, writhing as their bones shattered, their blood turning the current into a crimson shimmer beneath the bridge lights. Ryan was drenched now, crimson soaking his clothes, sticking his hair to his forehead. He looked less like a man and more like a demon birthed from slaughter.
Still they came.
Baseball bats rained down in a storm. Ryan crouched, rolled, his boots lashing out. One guard's jaw snapped sideways, another's throat collapsed under the sole of Ryan's stomp. He spun with impossible speed, the machete flashing like silver fire. A scream erupted as a hand was severed, tumbling to the concrete, fingers still twitching.
Gunfire cracked suddenly—wild, uncontrolled. Bullets sparked against the steel railings. Ryan's instincts carried him between shadows, every shot answered by his own. He pulled the pistol from his shoe holster, a hidden ace, and squeezed the trigger in rapid succession.
Bang—one head burst like overripe fruit.
Bang—another's knee disintegrated, the leg folding grotesquely.
Bang—blood geysered from a throat, spraying over the concrete barrier.
The bridge became a warzone of chaos—gunpowder smoke, the iron tang of blood, and the chorus of agony.
Ryan moved like something unreal, sliding between bodies, firing, stabbing, kicking, killing. Yet for all his ferocity, his breathing grew heavier, his muscles screaming. Each new wave pressed him closer to the brink. His shirt clung red, his cuts leaking, his bones aching from the endless strikes.
At last, the ground was carpeted with writhing bodies. Some lay still, twisted in unnatural angles, their blood joining the rivers of crimson spreading outward. Others coughed, gurgled, begged for air.
Ryan stood in the center, chest heaving, pistol trembling slightly in his hand. His eyes burned through the haze. Blood dripped from his chin onto the gunmetal at his feet.
Only a handful of guards remained, their weapons lowered, their faces pale. Courage had been carved out of them by Ryan's savagery. They stumbled backward, some dropping their bats, others dropping to their knees in surrender.
Ryan's lips curled in a dark grin. He raised his pistol and pointed it at the nearest survivor, his voice raw and venomous.
"Farewell, assholes."
The pistol trembled in Ryan's hand, not from fear but from exhaustion. His lungs dragged for air, every breath rattling like broken glass. The surviving guards knelt before him, bleeding, shaking, one of them weeping openly as his comrades' corpses bled out across the bridge.
Ryan raised his weapon toward the nearest one, his lips curling into a final sneer.
"Farewell, assholes."
The hammer clicked.
But before the bullet flew, the world exploded.
From the darkness of the highway came the roar of an engine, a black sedan streaking like a missile. Headlights cut across the carnage, searing white into Ryan's eyes. He barely had time to twist his body.
The impact hit him like the fist of a god.
The car smashed through, steel against flesh. Ryan's pistol flew from his hand as his body was lifted off the ground, rolling helplessly in the air before slamming down onto the blood-soaked concrete. The sound was horrific—the crunch of bone, the wet splatter of fresh blood. His head bounced against the ground, leaving a smear of crimson across the asphalt.
The pistol clattered out of reach, spinning into a pool of blood and oil.
Ryan groaned, coughing red across the ground. His limbs twitched, fighting to obey, but his strength bled out with every breath. His vision swam in fractured light, the headlights blinding him, making the bridge look like the gates of some infernal underworld.
The car skidded to a stop, its tires screaming against the road.
Then silence.
A moment later, the driver's door swung wide—but not with a simple push. The steel was kicked open with such violence that it tore from its hinges, the door sailing into the night like a thrown blade. It crashed against the bridge railing, bent in half, before tumbling into the black waters below.
From the car stepped a shadow.
Tall. Broad. Heavy boots striking the pavement with the weight of inevitability. The figure emerged into the glow of the headlights, revealing a face carved in rage. His eyes burned—not with ordinary anger, but with a crimson fire, glowing in the dark like a blood moon.
Liu Xiang had arrived.
The remaining guards collapsed to their knees, some sobbing in relief, others trembling in terror. They had prayed for rescue, but what had come felt closer to judgment.
Liu Xiang walked slowly, every step echoing louder than the screams had minutes before. He moved past the broken bodies without so much as a glance, boots splashing through blood. His presence devoured the air, heavier than the smoke, heavier than the stench of death.
He stopped beside one of his men—a crippled guard who had been cut down in the chaos. The man's legs were bent in wrong directions, his body mangled but alive. He reached up with trembling hands, eyes wide with desperate hope.
"Sir… you're here. Thank God, we stopped him—"
Liu Xiang tilted his head, staring down with the indifference of a butcher eyeing livestock. His voice was low, guttural, like thunder hidden behind mountains.
"Stopped him? Look around."
The guard's voice cracked, his tears mixing with blood. "We tried—he… he was too fast. But I swear, I slowed him down. I bought time until you—"
A sharp laugh cut from Liu Xiang's throat, devoid of humor. He crouched slowly, bringing his crimson gaze level with the broken man. Then, almost tenderly, he placed a gloved hand on the man's face, smearing blood across his cheek.
"Time?" Liu Xiang whispered. "You think failure buys you time?"
The crippled guard sobbed, shaking his head. "Please… I—I served you loyally, I—"
Bang.
The gunshot was deafening. The man's skull snapped back, half his face exploding in a spray of bone and gray matter. His corpse collapsed into the pool of blood that had been his comrades'.
Smoke curled from the barrel of Liu Xiang's pistol as he rose to his full height. His expression had not changed. To him, the execution had been no more than discarding trash.
The remaining guards flinched, bowing their heads so low they nearly kissed the bloody ground.
Ryan groaned again, dragging himself across the asphalt, leaving a red smear. His ribs screamed, his head felt split open, but his mind sharpened through the pain. He forced his body onto one elbow, blood dripping from his lips.
His blurred gaze locked on Liu Xiang.
And Liu Xiang, at last, turned his eyes upon Ryan.
The bridge seemed to fall silent, the night itself recoiling from the clash of their stares. One broken, bleeding, barely clinging to life. The other—a demon wrapped in flesh, radiating the certainty of death.
Liu Xiang took a single step forward, the sound like a drum of war.
The game had truly begun.