After being abandoned by her father, Delicious Franks turned to the streets for protection. Selling her body and doing drugs brought her temporary comfort and warmth. Delicious found herself being pimped out and selling her body off to men. Without...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The tension in the air was thick as Brutus stormed through the chaos, his anger burning like a wildfire. The storm outside mirrored the storm within him. His gunfire had become relentless, cutting down anyone who dared to cross his path. The air was thick with the scent of blood and the acrid smoke of gunpowder. The assassins had underestimated the fury they were about to face, but Brutus would make sure they would regret it.
The sounds of clashes filled the air—knives scraping against swords, guns firing, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor. Brutus' face was a mask of rage as he crushed skulls in his hands, not sparing a single soul. His movements were swift, brutal, and without mercy. There was no hesitation, no remorse. He fought with the fury of a man whose world had just been torn apart.
The battle intensified as Brutus locked eyes with one of the remaining assassins, his muscles tense and his fists clenched. With a growl, the assassin lunged, landing a series of brutal blows. Brutus fought back fiercely, but the assassin's strikes were calculated, landing squarely on Brutus' chest. He was thrown against the wall with a sickening thud, the air knocked from his lungs.
"Fuck," Brutus groaned loudly as he was thrown against the firm and unmoving wall.
The assassin didn't give him a moment to recover. A brutal kick to the stomach sent Brutus sprawling, gasping for breath. The assassin's foot connected again, slamming into Brutus' face with bone-crushing force. Brutus felt the sharp pain but gritted his teeth, refusing to let it take him down.
Fueled by rage, he reached out, his hand grabbing the assassin's leg before he could land another blow. With a twist of his body, Brutus yanked the assassin's foot violently to the side, making him lose balance. The assassin stumbled, but quickly regained himself, throwing a small vial at Brutus, intending to poison him.
Brutus, unfazed by the threat, stood tall and absorbed the impact of the substance. The poison barely affected him; his body had endured far worse. He charged forward with renewed fury, unleashing a series of punches that sent the assassin reeling.
The assassin, desperate, pulled a sword from his side, its blade gleaming in the dim light. He swung it viciously toward Brutus, but the seasoned fighter ducked just in time, narrowly avoiding the blade. But in the chaos, the assassin's blade found its mark—Brutus cried out in pain as the sharp edge pierced his side, blood seeping from the wound.
The pain was overwhelming, but Brutus didn't falter. His fury outweighed his injury. With a roar, he slammed his fist into the assassin's stomach, the force of his punch driving through the man's abdomen. The assassin's face twisted in shock and agony as Brutus punched deeper, tearing through his insides.
With a final, guttural cry, the assassin dropped to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp. His hands clutched at his torn stomach, but it was too late. He collapsed, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud. As he died, his final breath escaped him in a raspy cry, a desperate plea that was never answered.
