"You walked into the lion's den, sweetheart," he whispered, stepping closer. "And lions don't let go so easily."
He looked down at her leg, at her trembling hands, and the fear in her eyes.
"A beautiful young girl like you," he chuckled, "shouldn't...
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The city was quiet when a man in hoodie stepped into the alley.
He was holding a severed head in one hand.
Blood dripped from the jaw, thick and dark, trailing down his hoodie sleeve. The man's face—no, the thing’s face—was twisted in that last moment of fear. Mouth wide open. Eyes bulging. Still warm.
His own lips were stained with red. Not from a cut. But because he had ripped flesh with his damn teeth.
He was barefoot. His boots were soaked in too much blood, so he left them behind. The soles of his feet were painted red as he walked like a slow god through the trash-filled alley.
He passed a homeless man. The guy took one look and pretended to be dead.
Good instinct.
At the dumpster,he tossed the head inside like it was some expired vegetable. The thunk it made was final. Disgustingly satisfying.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Didn’t care to clean it properly. Let them all see. Let the fucking judiciary send another warrant. Another team. Another raid.
Let them come.
He was the reason they needed special forces. The headlines called him “The Phantom of South Zone.” “The Impaler.” “The Missing Bullet.” He liked that last one. Sounded poetic.
But he wasn’t doing it for fun.
He was at war.
His brother—Ershad—had been murdered. Slaughtered like an animal in the middle of the street.
Every day since, he had told himself the same thing:
This is the road I was born to walk.
And tonight?
He walked it alone, bleeding from the stomach. Bullet wounds. Fresh ones. A stab wound, too—left thigh. Deep. But he kept going.
