Angela's eyes were wide, her body coiled tight, every muscle screaming for her to run. I didn't let go of her wrist, my grip unyielding, my fingers pressing just enough to remind her who was in control.

"Hide. Now." My voice was a blade, sharp and cold, cutting through the chaos outside. The roar of engines and the thunderous beat of helicopter rotors shook the villa, dust raining down from the ceiling like a grim omen.

"Bathroom. Lock the door, and don't you dare come out until I say so."

Angela's breath came in ragged gasps. For a second, I saw the defiance flicker in her eyes—the urge to fight, to demand answers, to drag me away from whatever hell was about to unfold. But she'd seen what I could do.

She knew better. Her lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, she swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as she forced herself to nod. "Be safe," she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.

She turned, her boots pounding against the marble floor as she sprinted toward the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind her, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoed through the room.

I didn't watch her go.

My world had already narrowed, my senses sharpening like a predator locking onto its prey. The engines outside were louder now, the helicopters so close I could feel the vibrations in my bones.

I cracked my knuckles, one by one, the sound sharp in the charged silence. Rolling my shoulders, I reached for the weapon at my side, the cold metal a familiar comfort against my palm.

I stepped out of the room—and stopped.

A sea of armed men in black tactical gear flooded the villa, their weapons pointed directly at me. The helicopters hovered above, their searchlights cutting through the darkness, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls.

The air was thick with the scent of oil, adrenaline, and the unmistakable stink of fear. My gaze swept over them, slow and deliberate, like a king surveying his subjects before passing judgment.

Then I saw him.

Walter.

Tyler's father.

The man's face was a mask of rage, his eyes bloodshot and wild, surrounded by his own private army. The bodyguard who had been cleaning in the corner dropped to his knees, his entire body shaking. "Brothers... please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Leave now! He's not human! He's a devil!"

The men laughed, their voices rough and mocking. One of them, a hulking brute with a scar across his cheek, spat on the floor.

"This guy's lost his mind," he sneered. "What devil? Let's see if my bullet thinks he's a devil." The others joined in, their laughter ugly and forced, their fingers twitching on their triggers.

Walter stepped forward, his face twisted in a snarl. "It's you," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "You're the one who did that to my son."

I didn't flinch. I didn't blink. I just smiled—a slow, dangerous curve of my lips that made the bravest of them falter. "So what?" I said, my voice a velvet purr, laced with poison.

"Did you come here for revenge, Walter? Or just to join him?" I tilted my head, studying him like he was nothing more than an insect beneath my boot. "Because if it's revenge you want, you're going to need more than guns and helicopters."

Walter's face darkened, his jaw clenching so hard I could hear his teeth grind. "Don't kill him," he snarled at his men, his voice shaking with barely contained fury. "I want to skin him alive. I want to hear him scream."

The bodyguard let out a choked sob. "Boss, no—please!" he begged, crawling forward, his hands clutching at Walter's boots. "Boss, don't mess with him! This guy isn't human! He'll kill us all!"

Walter didn't even look at him. With a swift, brutal motion, he snatched a gun from one of his men and fired. The bodyguard's body jerked, then crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath him, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. The room fell silent, the only sound the distant hum of the helicopters and the ragged breathing of Walter's men.

I sighed, shaking my head in mock disappointment. "Look what you did, Walter," I said, my voice dripping with false sympathy. "You made a mess. Again." I took a step forward, my boots crunching over the broken glass scattered across the floor.

"But don't worry," I crooned, my voice a silken whisper laced with poison, "I'll make you lick it clean." My grip on the weapon tightened, my knuckles whitening as my smile stretched into something feral, something that didn't belong to this world. The fear in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on. Walter's men shifted uneasily, their guns wavering as their courage crumbled like dust between their fingers.

"And when I'm done with you, Walter," I continued, my voice dripping with dark promise, "I'm going to make sure Tyler gets a front-row seat in hell. Just so he can watch his father beg. For. Mercy." I let the words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Walter's face twisted, his skin turning the color of old parchment. "You talk too much," he snarled, raising his gun, but his hand trembled like a leaf in a storm.

I threw my head back and laughed, the sound clawing its way out of me—hollow, dark, and utterly inhuman.

Walter flinched, but he masked it with a growl, turning to his men. "Go!" he barked, his voice cracking under the weight of his own terror. "Capture him alive! And find that bitch Angela! Skin her alive! I want to hear her scream!"

The men hesitated, their eyes darting between their leader and me. I could taste their fear—bitter, metallic, intoxicating. With a flick of my wrist, the laser gun in my hand twisted, contorted, the metal bending as if it were alive.

In an instant, it was no longer a gun, but a knife—long, jagged, and humming with an eerie, pulsating energy. The blade glowed faintly, casting a sickly light across the faces of Walter's men.

"What the hell—?" one of them choked out, his gun clattering to the floor.

Walter's face burned with rage. "Tricks!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "He's using tricks to deceive you! Don't fall for it! He did the same to my son! To his bodyguards!" His voice was raw, desperate, but his men weren't listening. They were too busy staring at the knife in my hand, at the way it seemed to thrum with an unnatural power.

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