The chatter of thugs echoed through the air, mixing with the low growls of motorbikes purring like beasts ready to strike.
The sun sank low, bleeding orange light across the cracked road as seconds ticked away.
One thug cracked his knuckles. Another checked his gun. A third glanced at his watch.
5:59:58 PM.
A lone figure appeared in the distance—walking, then stopping. He turned just enough for the light to hit his face.
Derek.
He stood motionless, grinning like a maniac—predator eyes fixed on the herd of prey before him.
6:00:00 PM.
The moment the dust settled, his rifle slid into his hands.
The thugs erupted, roaring like a swarm of starving animals, engines screaming as they charged forward—and Derek smiled wider.
Derek burst out of laughter, laughing like a maniac as he lunged towards the crow of thug.
Derek burst out laughing—full-on maniac mode—as he lunged at the crowd of thugs.
He yanked the pins from the three grenades strapped around his waist, slid them free, and tossed them toward the mob. They bounced and rolled across the cracked highway.
"BOOM!"
A deafening blast ripped through Wood Valley, shaking the road. Asphalt cracked, dust flew, and bits of thug… well, let's just say it rained like messed-up confetti.
Derek's laughter echoed over the chaos. Feeling like the star of his own action movie, he raised his rifle at a thug whose pistol had jammed.
"HOLY SHIT!" the guy yelled.
Before he could finish, a bullet drilled through his skull. His body went stiff, dropping like a broken mannequin.
Derek flicked on the gear feature that made him immune to flash grenades, grinning as he yanked another pin and tossed a flashbang into the crowd.
A blinding, deafening KRAKOOM! exploded from the shell. The thugs screamed, hands clamped over their ears, stumbling like startled animals.
Derek yanked one thug by the collar, dragging him close. His knife flashed in the dim light.
He pressed it under the guy's chin, right in the submental area—sickly precise. The knife popped through the guy's mouth like a rat peeking its head out.
Tilting the knife, Derek gave it a little twist before kicking the poor bastard away.
No time to pause—he grabbed another thug by the hair, forcing him to look up. The knife went up, tip aimed at the guy's left eye.
The thug screamed, wailing like a mom losing her kid, voice breaking mid-cry.
Derek pulled the knife away, and—gross as hell—the eyeball stuck to the tip like some messed-up snack.
Some thugs blinked their eyes, shaking off the blindness—but when they looked up, the sight froze them. Their crew lay sprawled across the road, blood painting the asphalt in a vivid crimson river.
Derek stood amid the carnage, smiling like a man possessed, licking the blood from his lips. He ran his hand along the blade, wiping it clean.
"One rifle and a lot of pistols," he muttered, dropping the knife and raising his hands.
"Two thugs with pistols—take them out." His voice was low, calm… terrifying.
Without warning, two thugs collapsed, blood spurting from their skulls. Above, on a nearby building, Fred and Riles perched with their sniper rifles, cold and precise, like they were claiming trophies from a claw machine.
"A very splendid strategy, Mister Derek," Fred said, bowing slightly. "Yet I'm impressed… your stamina is endless. There are still more Street Dogs recovering from the blindness… like a murder of crows."
"Better," Derek replied, lifting his rifle with a grin. "Finally… I get to use my baby."
————————————————————
Somewhere in the massive penthouse, Marquez froze, eyes wide, heart hammering.
"Who the fuck is that guy?"
"Derek Jones," came Hollist's calm voice behind him, stepping out of invisibility.
Before Marquez could react, Hollist's arm snaked around his neck, tight enough to cut off air. He gasped, struggling, wrestling against the firm hold—but there was no escape.
Instead, Marquez swung his elbow from behind, slamming into Hollist's ribs and loosening the choke.
Hollist stumbled back, chest heaving, then spun free and chuckled, shaking his head like someone waking from a bad dream.
"Marquez…"
"Long time," Marquez said, rubbing his neck, eyes cold.
Hollist stared him dead in the face. "With all that money, you could've been better—donate to charity or something—before getting into Encyclophin."
Marquez snorted. "Oh, that's rich coming from the family of a user."
"My family was framed in the New York incident!" Hollist barked.
"No—your mom was an addict," Marquez shot back, voice dripping with mockery.
"Don't hide behind lies."
Something in Hollist snapped. Rage flared like a live wire—his jaw tightened, veins at his temple pulsing.
"I'M GONNA KILL YOU!" he roared, voice cracking.
————————————————————
"Everybody say your prayers for our beloved thug here," Derek said, pointing at the Street Dogs member's corpse while casually sitting on it like a throne.
The rest of the thugs froze, hands trembling as they stared at him. One guy, probably the dumbest of the bunch, found enough courage—or stupidity—to charge at Derek with a piece of wood.
Derek raised his arm to block, but the thug slipped past and cracked him on the back of the head. The sound echoed loud. The thugs laughed, some even cheering—until Derek didn't fall. He just stood there, still as a statue, then slowly turned his head toward the guy who hit him.
"Y'know," Derek said with a weirdly calm smile, walking closer, "back when I was a kid, my mom used to cook me delicious food every time I hit my head on a wall or something."
The thug's grin faded. He noticed blood trickling down the back of Derek's head.
Derek rested a hand on the man's shoulder, voice low but almost gentle.
"She told me that good food makes you forget pain... but my old man told me to fight back."
Then Derek swung his arm. His fist slammed into the guy's chest—hard. Bone cracked, ribs shattered. His hand pushed deeper, breaking through until he felt something pulsing. He grabbed the thug's heart and squeezed. It burst like a balloon.
"I shouldn't have let my guard down," he said in a stern voice before pushing the thug away leaving the heart in his hand, "who wants to volunteer?"
One thug threw a knife sending it towards Derek's head and it hit him; the knife stuck in his head, blood started running down his face.
"Okay, this is the night Street Dogs go extinct," he said pulling out the knife off his head.
————————————————————
The penthouse was a disaster. Glass everywhere, like a typhoon just passed through. Furniture flipped, blood smeared across the floor, and the smell of coppery metal hung thick in the air. Marquez's nose was busted, blood trickling down, and Hollist's fists were tight enough to snap something. The whole place? Dead silent, except for the sound of their heavy breathing and the occasional thunk of a fist hitting flesh.
Hollist didn't waste time. He lunged first, throwing punches like he was punching every bad memory he had in his life. Marquez tried to block, but Hollist was too fast. Crack, thud, snap—the sounds of bone and muscle hitting each other filled the room. Marquez staggered back, wiping blood from his lip, but his grin was wild.
"Not bad," he hissed, wiping at his split lip. "But you're gonna get tired fast."
"I don't get tired," Hollist shot back, eyes locked.
Marquez lunged like a man possessed, elbowing Hollist's ribs. Pain exploded, but Hollist rolled with it, flipping Marquez onto a coffee table that shattered under the impact. Marquez hit the floor, cursed, and popped back up like it was nothing.
"You've gotten strong," Marquez said, voice low and dangerous. "But strength alone won't save you."
Hollist smirked. "Strength? Nah. You just gotta be smarter than the idiot swinging at you."
He moved again, ducking a wild swing, countering with a jab to the jaw, then kicked Marquez's legs out from under him. The guy hit the ground hard, glass cutting his palms. But Marquez laughed, wet and ragged, spitting blood on the floor.
"You think money and power make you untouchable?" Hollist said, leaning closer, eyes cold. "Wrong. You pay for everything."
Marquez's laugh turned into a cough. "I… I'm not scared…"
Hollist didn't answer. His fists flew, landing every hit with precision, each strike loud in the chaotic room. Marquez tried to fight back, but Hollist was everywhere at once, ducking, twisting, punishing. Every punch, every kick, every elbow was calculated—but it looked insane, like someone who's lost their mind and still winning.
Finally, Hollist stepped back, chest heaving, letting Marquez gasp for air. The guy's eyes were wide, finally seeing the guy in front of him wasn't someone to mess with.
"I'm not here to kill you… yet," Hollist said, wiping blood off his face. "But I'm here to make sure you remember this."
Marquez coughed, choking on blood, realizing this fight? He's losing. Hollist? Calm, focused, deadly.
Hollist barely had a moment to breathe before Marquez suddenly surged forward. His movement was faster than Hollist expected—like a predator who'd been holding back until now. He threw a wild hook that Hollist barely blocked, the force rattling his arms.
"What the—?!" Hollist muttered, stepping back.
Marquez's eyes were cold, calculating, and suddenly Hollist realized something—this wasn't just raw strength. Marquez had skill, experience, and a sadistic streak that made every move unpredictable.
Hollist tried a spinning kick, aiming to knock him off balance—but Marquez leaned back at the last second, grabbing Hollist's leg mid-air. With a brutal twist, he slammed him into the wall. Wood splintered, glass shattered, and Hollist's head hit the floor hard. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
Marquez didn't pause. He landed a sharp elbow across Hollist's ribs, the wind whooshing out of him. Hollist tried to push back, fists swinging, but every strike was met with blocks or counters that pushed him back, step by step.
"You think being fast makes you untouchable?" Marquez sneered, blood dripping from his own lip. "You're human, just like the rest of us."
Hollist gritted his teeth, struggling to get up, but Marquez grabbed him by the collar and slammed him to the floor again. Pain radiated through every bone in his body. Hollist's vision blurred, and for the first time in the fight, he felt fear—not for his life, but for the edge he'd lost.
Marquez's fists rained down, hitting with precision Hollist couldn't predict. He rolled, tried to escape, but a swift kick caught him in the stomach, sending him sprawling backward. He gasped, choking on the metallic taste of blood.
Hollist's hands shook as he tried to grab Marquez's arm, but Marquez twisted out, delivering a brutal knee to his chest. Hollist collapsed to the floor, lungs burning, arms trembling.
"Not bad," Marquez whispered, standing over him, towering, almost like the chaos itself had taken form. "But every hero has a breaking point."
----------------------------------------------------------
Back at the Wood Valley Highway hundreds of corpses layed down on the ground, their body stiffening due to Derek's brutal attacks like a mannequin.
He walked as he stepped on the lifeless body of the Street dogs, he spotted a tall building with a penthouse on top of it.
"Was this the right place?" Derek gently tapped the earpiece stuffed in his ear, "Hollist said it was a penthouse."
The earpiece went static for a bit, "Indeed Mister Derek, I saw those street dogs emerged from that building before coming here." Fred replied, a loud sound of Click-Clack from reloading the sniper was heard.
----------------------------------------------------------
The Wood Valley highway was a massacre. The bodies of Street Dogs sprawled across the cracked asphalt like broken mannequins, crimson spreading fast, painting a sick masterpiece across the road. Derek strode through it like he owned the world, boots crunching over limbs without a flicker of hesitation. The smell of blood and burnt rubber hit him, but he didn't flinch. His eyes were locked on the building with the penthouse — the source of the chaos, the nest of Marquez's operation.
"Was this the place?" Derek whispered into his earpiece, tilting his head. "Hollist said penthouse. This right?"
Static buzzed before Fred's calm voice came through.
"Yes, Mister Derek. Surveillance confirms Street Dogs emerged from that building before spilling onto the highway."
The faint click-clack of Fred reloading a sniper echoed, like a heartbeat in Derek's ear.
Derek smirked, tightening his grip on his knife and rifle. "Perfect. Time to crash their party."
He reached the foot of the building, kicking the door open with a force that sent it slamming against the wall. Immediately, thugs swarmed. Guns raised, knives flashing — they thought numbers meant something. Derek thought otherwise.
"BOOM!" He tossed a grenade at the nearest cluster of thugs. The blast ripped through the lobby, glass shattering, concrete cracking. Dust and screams filled the air. Derek's laughter rang out, pure chaos incarnate.
Two thugs tried to flank him from the sides, but a high-pitched plink of bullets echoed. They crumpled to the ground. He glanced up. Riles and Fred had taken sniper positions at the windows across the street. Their rifles glinted, dead eyes targeting anyone daring enough to peek out.
"Nice shot, Riles," Derek said, ducking behind a fallen pillar as another thug swung a pipe at him.
"Try not to die," Riles replied dryly, finger tightening on the trigger.
The thug swung again. Derek twisted, catching the pipe mid-air, bending it until it snapped in half. He kicked the thug square in the chest, sending him flying into the wall. Blood sprayed, spattering the marble floor.
"Alright," Derek muttered, eyes scanning. "More incoming."
A line of four thugs burst through a shattered window, weapons raised. Derek crouched, grenades ready. He yanked the pins, tossing them in a deadly arc. KRAKOOM! The room exploded into fire and smoke. Screams were swallowed in the chaos. Debris rained down, pieces of concrete and wood punctuating the symphony of terror.
One thug survived the blast, charging like a man possessed. Derek sidestepped and slammed a brutal elbow into his back. The man stumbled forward, and Derek drove the knife into his side, twisting. The guy howled, collapsing to the ground as Derek yanked it free.
Above, Fred's voice came through the comms, calm but deadly:
"Top right window, two more with pistols. Covered."
Riles added, "Bottom hallway, three sneaking behind pillars. You're clear for the center."
Derek didn't even answer. He was a whirlwind, dodging, punching, stabbing, and shooting all at once. Every move calculated, every strike precise, yet utterly unhinged. Limbs flew, heads snapped back, and blood splattered like macabre paint on the walls.
He paused only long enough to reload, flipping the rifle into firing position, blasting two thugs whose aim had been slightly off. Their bodies slammed against walls, lifeless.
"I love this gun, I'm naming you Cupcake" Derek muttered, patting his rifle like a prized pet.
But the penthouse was more than a few thugs. More came from every corner. Derek ducked behind the railing of the staircase, swinging his knife in a deadly arc, cutting a man down before he even realized he was dead.
Riles's sniper bullets pinged through the air, cutting through anyone trying to flank Derek. Fred's calm, steady shots dropped thugs with precision, each pull of the trigger like an exclamation mark to Derek's violent ballet.
Derek kicked another thug into the railing, sending him tumbling down two floors. He climbed over the bodies, blood smeared on his face, hair matted. His laugh rang out, echoing through the shattered penthouse.
"Come on! Is that all you got?" he shouted, raising a hand as if taunting the remaining gangsters.
A thug with a bat lunged at him. Derek caught the swing with his bare hand, blood exploding across his fingers as he snapped the man's arm back. He didn't stop — elbow into the chest, kick to the head. The thug collapsed.
"Fred, Riles — cover the staircase!" Derek barked. "I'm moving up!"
Bullets whizzed, wood splintered, and bodies fell. The penthouse was chaos incarnate, a mix of smoke, blood, and screaming. Derek didn't just move through it; he owned it. Every thug who thought they could challenge him learned quickly: this wasn't a fight. This was carnage, orchestrated with a maniacal grin and two snipers providing deadly backup.
Finally, he reached the last corridor before Marquez's penthouse. Only a few thugs remained — the most desperate, the most reckless. Derek threw a flashbang into their midst, disorienting them. Screams, cries, confusion — then silence as two sniper shots from Riles and Fred dropped them instantly.
Derek stepped over their bodies, chest heaving, smile still plastered across his bloodied face.
"Alright, last floor… time to meet the guy who started all this," he muttered, glancing at the penthouse door.
----------------------------------------------------------
Shinji was left alone in the mansion. He sat on the couch, taking a quiet sip of his coffee while his eyes lingered on the revolver resting on the table in front of him.
"I should've been assisting Derek… and yet…" he murmured, his gaze drifting back to his cup. Ripples trembled across the coffee's surface, disturbed by his shaky grip.
"I can't lose them," he whispered, voice heavy with worry.
----------------------------------------------------------
Marquez spat on Hollist's unconscious body sprawled on the floor. "Look who's in charge now, huh? Fucking man with mommy issues," he panted, sweat and blood mixing on his face.
"I should get an axe and hang your head on my wall," he laughed breathlessly, already tasting victory.
He walked to the counter, grabbed a half-empty bottle of wine, and poured it into a glass. "Off to see mom and little sis at the sky," he muttered after taking a drink. He set the glass down with a faint clink.
"…And time to move to another place. This place is a damn mess—"
The door slammed open. Marquez froze.
"The barrier I'm talking about… is that thing in your hand."
Derek ripped the taser wires from his neck, tossing the device to the floor with a metallic clatter. His pupils dilated, breathing deep and sharp.
"I've finally seen your face," Derek said, picking up a golden pitbull statue from under the TV. "You look like a bisexual horse."
Before Marquez could even move, Derek charged. The statue cracked against Marquez's skull—THUNK!—blood sprayed as he staggered. Derek followed with two clean hits to the ribs, grabbed Marquez by the collar, and lifted him off the ground.
Then came the slam. BOOM! His body hit the floor like dead weight, curling up in pain.
Derek raised the statue again and smashed it down. The sound echoed through the penthouse.
He spotted a rope hanging behind the counter. Without hesitation, he tied a quick knot to a metal beam on the ceiling, then wrapped it around Marquez's neck.
Gripping his pistol with one hand, Derek shot the massive window—glass shattered into a spiderweb of cracks.
He dragged Marquez toward it.
Derek whispered, "Say hi to the sky for me."
Then he jumped—dragging Marquez's body with him.
Then he jumped—dragging Marquez's body with him.
"NOOOO!!!" Marquez screamed as the rope tightened midair—his body jerked violently, left hanging outside the broken window. Derek fell, crashed into a tree, rolled off, and landed hard—but alive.
The penthouse fell silent.
Later that night…
Police sirens wailed. Red and blue lights painted the building walls.
Officer Paul Murry stepped out of his car, staring up at the gruesome sight—the hanged body of Marquez swinging outside the shattered window.
"Another one," he muttered. "Your theory about Stree Dogs."
He lit a cigarette, exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. "Same thing happened back at the Oak Street?"
A younger officer nodded nervously. "Same pattern, sir. Same brutality."
Paul flicked his cigarette, watching the ember die. "Call the medical team, we need more of them. This is a massacre."
Meanwhile, two shadows appeared on the building's rooftop.
Riles and Fred stood over Hollist's limp body. Riles strapped the parachute tight and gave Fred a nod.
"Ready?"
Fred smirked. "Always."
They leapt out the window, the parachute bursting open midair. The three of them landed on a nearby rooftop, rolled over, then vanished into the night—just as headlights from a black car flashed below.
The door opened. They loaded Hollist in the backseat.
"Drive," Riles said.
The engine roared, tires screeching against wet asphalt, disappearing into the shadows—leaving only the echo of war in the city behind them.
----------------------------------------------------------
The news anchor's voice filled the quiet room, echoing through a half-broken television:
"Breaking news—over two hundred thirty dead bodies have been discovered across the abandoned districts, believed to be connected to last night's gang massacre. Among the deceased is an unidentified man, later confirmed as Cristiano Marquez, one of the Street Dogs' high-ranking leaders."
The broadcast flickered, the anchor's voice cutting in and out with static.
"Authorities suspect the attack may be linked to the ongoing conflict between the Street Dogs and a mysterious organization known as The Phantom, according to Officer Paul Murry."
The screen went black.
----------------------------------------------------------
Inside the mansion's infirmary, the air was heavy with the smell of disinfectant and dried blood.
Hollist lay unconscious on the bed, hooked to IV lines, his face bruised but alive. Shinji sat beside him, silent—eyes glued to the heart monitor's steady beeping.
The door opened. Derek stepped in with Fred and Riles behind him, all three are exhausted and one with dried blood. Derek's expression was unreadable, but his eyes… still burned.
"He's stable," Shinji said without looking up. "You did what you had to do."
Derek dropped his rifle on the couch and leaned against the wall. "Marquez's gone," he muttered.
Riles sat down, exhausted, while Fred gave a quiet laugh. "Indeed… and I doubt the Street Dogs will stay quiet after this."
Derek's gaze shifted to Hollist's still face. "Fine by me," he said softly. "but the mastermind is no longer with them, Break the link and the rest will fall."
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance. The storm wasn't over—just taking a breath.