The city lights flickered in the rain, casting distorted reflections across the wet pavement. The police headquarters loomed ahead, a towering fortress of steel and corruption. Inside, on the top floor, Ramos and Ortega reveled in their ill-gotten victory, glasses clinking in celebration. The men who had betrayed John Rico, who had slaughtered his brothers, laughed without fear.
But death stood outside their door.
Adrian took a slow drag from his cigarette, his breath misting in the cold night air. Blood soaked his clothes, dripping from wounds earned in his earlier slaughter. Twin assault rifles hung from his shoulders, their magazines fully loaded. Grenades lined his vest, ready to paint the walls red.
His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
The first floor was drowned in chaos before they even knew he was there.
Bullets tore through flesh, ripping apart uniforms and bone. Officers scrambled for cover, screaming into their radios, but their voices were drowned by the sound of gunfire.
One officer clutched his shredded stomach, gasping wetly as blood pooled beneath him. Another reached for his fallen weapon—Bang. A shot to the wrist, then the knee. His screams mixed with the alarm blaring overhead.
Adrian stepped over the dying, his movements methodical, indifferent.
A squad of officers burst through a doorway, rifles raised.
He pulled the pin from a grenade and lobbed it into their midst.
The walls trembled as flames swallowed them whole, their bodies reduced to charred husks.
He reloaded, moving up. Floor by floor, the bodies stacked higher. The farther he went, the more their fear became palpable. They knew. They knew why he was here. Who he had come for.
He took his time with the last few.
A man clutched his bleeding leg, eyes wide with terror. "P-please... I have a family—"
Adrian crouched, tilting his head. "So did I."
By the time he reached the top floor, he was drenched in blood—his own, theirs, his father’s legacy painted on his skin. The adrenaline still burned in his veins, but he felt it waning, exhaustion creeping into his bones. He should have felt something. Anything.
But there was only the void.
Then, as he stepped through the doors, his voice carried through the empty halls. A quiet, haunting melody.
"Are you, are you... coming to the tree..."
His boots echoed on the marble floor. A trail of red followed.
"Where they strung up a man... they say murdered three..."
Ramos and Ortega stood frozen, their eyes wide, glasses trembling in their hands.
"Strange things did happen here... no stranger would it be..."
Adrian dropped his rifle. The last act required something more personal.
"If we met at midnight... in the hanging tree."
Ortega moved first, fumbling for his gun. Too slow.
Adrian’s knife slashed across his arm, then buried deep in his gut. He twisted. Scream.
He let the man fall, writhing in agony. Ramos tried to run, but Adrian was faster, slamming him into the desk. The bastard begged. Cried. But it didn’t matter.
He started with the skin—peeling it back, layer by layer. They screamed, they thrashed, but they didn’t die quickly. No, not quickly at all.
By the time the last breath left their lips, his vision swam. Blood loss. Too much.
He sank onto the pile of corpses, letting out a shuddering breath. A broken bottle of whiskey lay nearby, some liquid still left inside. He grabbed it, taking a slow sip, letting the burn settle in his throat.
The adrenaline faded. The pain sharpened. His body was done. His story was done.
As his vision blurred, his life flashed before his eyes. The orphanage. The day his father took him in. The warmth of a home he never had. How John Rico tried to give him a normal life, tried to steer him away from the darkness. He had been happy. Reading web novels, playing games, goofing off with his brothers. He had been a chill guy. A loner, maybe, but he never needed more than his family.
Then the war came. His father, a patriot, had wanted him to serve. And he did. He had been a soldier, a killer, but not a monster. Even after everything, his personality never changed much.
Except for one thing.
He could not live without revenge. No matter how small, no matter how insignificant, if he had been wronged, he had to balance the scales.
And when his family was taken from him, revenge was the only thing keeping him alive.
Now, with it fulfilled, there was nothing left.
A weak chuckle left his lips.
And let the darkness take him.