Franz ended the call.
He turned slowly, the screen of the phone still glowing for a heartbeat longer before it dimmed to black, casting his face into a sharper shadow.
The silence after the disconnect was thick. One of the guards had stayed behind. The other two had gone ahead—to report, maybe. Or to feel useful. Doesn’t matter.
Franz started bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. Small, rhythmic hops. Like a boxer before a fight. Testing his balance. Waking up the blood. His body was still a bit fatigued from previous massacre.
The sound echoed slightly off the tiled walls.
The remaining guard furrowed his brow. "What the fuck are yo—"
Franz lunged forward—no pause, no shout, just motion—and tackled him like a human missile. Shoulder to sternum. The man grunted, air leaving his lungs in a strangled gasp, as Franz drove him down hard.
The ground met him with a sick crunch.
Before he could react—before a word, a breath, a protest—
Three brutal slams. Skull to floor. Bone on stone.
A wet, sickening crack followed the third. Blood sprayed across the floor in fat droplets. Some hit Franz’s cheek. He didn’t blink.
The head beneath him twitched once.
Franz sat there for a moment. Breathing. The silence returned, heavier than before.
[Jesus. This isn’t Mortal Kombat.]
Franz wiped his hands on the man’s black uniform, smearing red across the folds of fabric. His fingers were slick, shiny with blood. "Yeah," he muttered. "Got a little carried away. Didn’t feel anything." he took a deep breath
"Should probably stick to guns and blades."
He pulled back his coat, revealing a compact handgun holstered under one arm, and a machete strapped along his back.
He chambered a round, then unsheathed the blade with a soft hiss of steel.
"Alright," Franz said quietly, eyes narrowing. "Let’s dance."
Further down the hall, the air shifted. Two guards walked side by side, rifles slung casually over their shoulders. Their boots sank into the plush of the ornate rug. Gold-trimmed. Imported. Handwoven. They barely noticed it.
"I think I’m gonna do it tonight," one of them said, a faint nervousness in his voice.
His partner turned his head. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I’ve been waiting too long. I bought the ring last month."
There was a short, genuine laugh. "You serious?"
The first man smiled, almost shyly. "He’s the one, man. I don’t care what my old man thinks anymore. I’m done hiding."
They kept walking, boots soft against the rug.
The first man dropped like a sack of meat, blood misting the air, brain and bone shattered by the bullet. A perfect shot—clean, precise, dead-center.
No scream. Just silence.
The second man froze. His mouth opened. "Wh—"
The bullet punched through his forehead. He staggered backward, arms flailing. The ring box in his pocket flew out mid-fall, skidding across the polished tile before hitting the wall and bouncing once.
Franz stepped into the light, glancing down.
He spat on the first body.
Franz gave a half-shrug. "He looked at me weird in the car."
[System Notice: Remaining Balance – 27 Lives]
Franz twirled the machete once, then snapped the slide on the handgun back into place with a metallic click. He moved like a shadow now—fluid, efficient, hungry.
Inside, the mansion stretched out in long, lavish corridors. Marble pillars lined the walls. Crystal chandeliers hung above like frozen galaxies. Tall mirrors reflected opulence—and blood.
It turned red quickly.
The fourth target was in the hallway—black suit, red tie, earpiece blinking. Franz burst from a side door and slammed the man against the wall. One movement. No words.
The machete slit his throat cleanly, edge to spine. Blood sprayed in a sharp arc. It hit the marble wall, hot and steaming.
The man gurgled once. Then slid down, leaving a smear behind.
Another appeared from the hallway.
Franz ducked, sidestepped, and swung upward.
Steel caught under the jaw and carved upward, the force lifting the man off his feet for a split second. His scream caught mid-breath, muffled by his own tongue. The blade crunched through cartilage and spine.
Another shout behind him—gun raised.
Franz didn’t even look.
He fired through the velvet couch.
The bullet tore through cushion, stuffing, and femur. The man screamed, dropped his rifle, and clawed at his shattered leg.
Franz walked over calmly. Raised the gun.
Straight through the neck. Blood jetted upward in a red fountain, staining the ceiling like paint.
In the parlor, two more guards froze at the sound.
Franz threw the machete.
It spun like a deadly silver boomerang.
It embedded into the chest of one man, pinning him to the wall like a grotesque art piece. His body jerked once. Then hung still.
The other raised his weapon, panicked.
Franz didn’t hesitate.
One shot. From the hip. Through the heart.
The man stumbled backward, knocking over a glass coffee table. It shattered with a crystalline explosion. Shards scattered like stars across the floor. Blood soaked the remains.
[System Notice: Remaining Balance – 23 Lives]
Franz moved through the halls like a ghost. Efficient. Silent. Death in motion.
He slit the base of a guard’s skull with a flick of his wrist. The man dropped without a sound.
Another took a shot to the spine. Crumpled. Alive—but helpless. Franz stepped over him and curb-stomped his skull. A sickening crunch. Silence followed.
Curtain cords wrapped around necks. Pulled tight. Eyes bulged. No screams. Just the choking gurgle of fading breath.
Two more fell—kneecaps shot out from under them, writhing on the floor. Franz slit their throats like he was unzipping a coat.
The walls were drenched now. Blood ran in lines down gold molding. Paintings were soaked. Furniture broken. Statues toppled.
Franz’s hoodie hung torn off one shoulder, soaked and dark. But his face—calm. Focused. Eyes like cracked glass. Cold light behind them.
[System Notice: Remaining Balance – 13 Lives]
Franz leaned against the doorframe of the mansion’s grand dining hall.
A long mahogany table stretched across the room, candles flickering on top. Five men sat at the far end—suits, earpieces, weapons nearby. They were talking. Arguing.
Three bullets. Three men.
One slumped forward into his bowl of soup, sending it spilling across the white tablecloth, red mixing with gold broth.
Another tipped his chair, trying to run. Franz vaulted the table, boots crashing onto the polished wood. He grabbed the man by the collar mid-fall and SLAMMED his head into the sharp edge of the table.
Skull fractured. Blood spread in a jagged halo.
The last man trembled.
"I—I didn’t do anything—"
Franz shot him in the foot.
The scream echoed through the chandeliers.
Then Franz stepped close. Looked him in the eyes.
Straight through the mouth.
Skull fragments sprayed the wall behind.