The tattooed man's lips curved slightly, a faint purple light flickering in his eyes.
"Apologize to the two ladies… and to this driver," he said hoarsely.
The greasy man froze, eyes bulging in disbelief. "B-Boss, that doesn't sound like you at all!" he stammered, forcing a nervous laugh. "You used to tell us that the word 'sorry' doesn't exist in your dictionary. What's gotten into you?"
The other thugs looked equally confused, their wide, frog-like eyes fixed on the tattooed man as if he'd lost his mind.
"Enough talk!" the tattooed man snapped, his tone turning sharp and deadly. His gaze swept coldly over his men. "Are you defying me now? Say one more word—and I'll cripple every one of you."
The words hit like a thunderclap. The men immediately cowered, trembling and shaking their heads.
"No, no, we wouldn't dare!"
"Boss, we were wrong!"
"We'll never do it again! We'll turn over a new leaf, swear it!"
...
Hearing their frantic pleas, the tattooed man's expression eased slightly.
"Hand over all the cash you've got," he ordered. "It'll go toward their car repairs and medical bills."
He extended his hand, palm open.
The greasy man's face twisted in misery. Fighting back tears, he dug into his pockets and pulled out a few crumpled bills, his hand shaking as he passed them over.
"Seriously? That's it? Barely a few dozen bucks?" the tattooed man muttered, twitching with frustration.
The rest fared no better. They patted themselves down, emptying their pockets of loose change and small bills—barely enough to buy lunch.
Eight grown men together couldn't scrape up more than five hundred yuan.
The tattooed man sighed and shrugged. He reached into his own pocket, pulling out another hundred or so, and added it to the pile.
He handed the total—just over six hundred—to the two women and the middle-aged driver. The driver, however, shook his head firmly and refused to take it, insisting the money go entirely to the women.
The onlookers were stunned into silence.
"No way… That guy's one of the worst thugs around here."
"Did he just… apologize?"
"Maybe he's had a change of heart—good for him!"
"Yeah right. Or maybe he's possessed!" someone muttered under their breath.
...
The crowd buzzed with confused whispers—half amazed, half unsettled.
The tattooed man, followed by his hulking crew, handed over the last of the money and walked toward the bloodied driver.
"My apologies. My men didn't know any better," he said quietly, extending a hand to help the man up.
The driver slapped it away with a glare. "Keep your apology. Just give me back my phone."
The thugs behind the tattooed man immediately bristled and surged forward, surrounding the driver.
"My boss is trying to be nice, and you've got the nerve to disrespect him?"
"You've got some guts, old man!"
"Teach him a lesson!"
...
A burly man cursed under his breath, grabbed the driver by the collar, and drew back a fist the size of a sandbag, ready to swing.
"Stop." The tattooed man cracked his neck, a sinister smile curling across his face. "Give him back his phone."
"But…" The greasy man hesitated, unsure of what to say.
"Now." The tattooed man's low growl cut through the air, his eyes flashing with a deadly chill.
The greasy man froze. Every hair on his body stood on end as cold sweat trickled down his back. He stumbled forward and, trembling, handed the phone back to the middle-aged driver.
He panted heavily, nearly scared to death by his own boss. Deep down, he had the bone-deep certainty that if he'd disobeyed just now, he would've been killed on the spot.
Not far away, everyone in the Rustbucket was watching the bizarre scene unfold.
"What's up with Lucian? Could this be a side effect of the transformation?"
Grandpa Max frowned, staring at the tattooed man's cold, predatory expression.
Ben scratched his head. "Maybe… he's just trying to scare them?"
"I doubt it. Who knows what's gotten into him?" Gwen muttered, worry clouding her face. Even her usual enthusiasm for gaming was gone.
The highway remained completely jammed.
The driver, now with his phone back, quickly climbed into his car, rolled up the windows, and started shouting into the receiver—probably cursing someone out.
The tattooed man shrugged it off.
He led his crew back to the two frightened women, apologizing once more before turning to his men with a harsh rebuke.
Then he announced, "That's it. We're done. Everyone goes their own way—back home, back to your moms."
Minutes later, the tough-looking thugs were bawling their eyes out, snot and tears flowing as they repented their past misdeeds. They hugged each other tightly, ready to part ways.
"Boss, we'll miss you!"
"If you ever need plumbing work done, call me!"
"We don't wanna say goodbye, Boss!"
...
Watching the crying, blubbering men, the tattooed man twitched visibly, a black line forming on his forehead. Without a word, he turned to leave.
Vroom!
Suddenly, the desert beside the highway erupted with a deep, rumbling roar of engines.
The tattooed man froze and looked over.
A dozen massive off-road vehicles came barreling across the sand, crushing cacti and spraying grit everywhere like a stampede of maddened bulls.
"What the hell…"
Moments later, the SUVs screeched to a halt beside the congested traffic, drifting dramatically. Their heavy wheels kicked up thick plumes of yellow dust, blanketing the nearby cars in a choking haze.
Some drivers honked in anger, but no one dared say a word—none of them wanted trouble.
More than thirty burly men jumped from the vehicles, encircling the group with hostile glares. The greasy man and his crew froze, stunned speechless.
"Boss, we're here!" shouted the leader of the newcomers, calling out to the middle-aged driver.
"Boss?" The greasy man's eyes widened. Oh, hell… we picked a fight with a big shot.
The middle-aged driver wiped the blood from his forehead, his expression darkening. "Beat them. Beat them hard! Back in my street days, I never took crap like this!" he barked.
"Yes, sir!" the leader roared, rallying his men to attack.
The thugs paled instantly, clutching their heads and pleading for mercy.
"You hurt our boss? Not even God Himself can save you now!" the leader shouted, swinging his arm. "Go! Beat them into paste!"
"Stop." The tattooed man's gravelly voice cut through the chaos.
"Oh? Who the hell are you supposed to be?" The leader sneered. "You rough up our boss, then try to play the hero? Spare me."
"Fake bastard! Boys, tear him apart! Give him some extra attention while you're at it!"
Whoosh!
The moment the words left his mouth, the mob erupted. Over thirty men charged forward, fists flying as they surged toward the tattooed man and his crew.
"Boss, what do we do?!" the greasy man whimpered, his face wrinkling in panic.
The tattooed man stood still, his back to them, silent.
"B-Boss?" The greasy man stumbled around to face him—then froze in horror.
The skin around the tattooed man's eyes had split into jagged black cracks. His irises glowed an ominous violet, radiating a suffocating aura of murderous rage…