The man's grip on his rifle faltered, his knuckles turning white as his face paled. "You're bluffing," he muttered, but his voice cracked, his confidence crumbling like ash in the wind. His eyes darted between Angela and me, searching for any sign of weakness, any hint that this was all some twisted joke. But he found none.

Before he could react, I moved.

In a single, fluid motion, I lunged forward and wrenched the rifle from his hands. His finger twitched on the trigger in panic, and a shot rang out—directly at my face.

The bullet struck me square in the forehead and ricocheted off as if it had hit steel. His eyes widened in horror, his breath hitching as he stumbled back. "No... that's impossible—!" he choked out, his voice trembling. "What the fuck are you?!"

The soldiers who had been standing behind me didn't hesitate. In an instant, they surged forward, grabbing the man by his arms and dragging him out of the helicopter.

A few sharp kicks to his ribs sent him sprawling onto the ground, his body crumpling as they tossed him aside like garbage. "Pathetic," one of them spat, before turning back to me, his expression resolute. "We're with you, sir."

I didn't spare the man on the ground another glance. Instead, I turned to Angela, offering her my hand. She took it without hesitation, her fingers gripping mine as I helped her into the helicopter.

The moment she was inside, she sank into the seat beside me, her breath still uneven but her eyes burning with a newfound fire. The rotors above us roared to life, the wind whipping through the open door as the chopper lifted off the ground.

As we ascended, I looked out at the horizon, where Walter's castle loomed in the distance—an imposing fortress of stone and steel, bathed in the cold glow of floodlights. "That's ours now," I said, my voice low but carrying over the roar of the engines. "Every brick. Every weapon. Every man who still breathes inside those walls."

Angela followed my gaze, her expression hardening as Walter's castle loomed closer, its cold stone walls bathed in the eerie glow of floodlights.

The tremor in her hands betrayed the storm still raging inside her, but her voice was steady, unyielding. "What do we do with them?" she asked, her fingers curling into the armrest, her knuckles turning white.

I leaned back in my seat, my arm resting along the back of hers, my fingers brushing against her shoulder in a possessive, almost protective gesture. "We give them a choice," I said, my voice calm but edged with steel, the kind of tone that left no room for doubt. "Swear loyalty to you, or die where they stand."

Angela turned to me, her body instinctively leaning into mine as if seeking shelter from the chaos of her own thoughts. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice raw with emotion.

"From now on, I am all yours." She lifted her gaze to mine, her eyes burning with a fierce, almost desperate devotion. "I am willing to give you my soul."

I felt something shift inside me—something dark, something primal. I realized then that she might truly believe I was the devil himself. "Aren't you afraid I am the devil?" I asked, my voice low, almost amused, but there was an edge to it, a hint of something more vulnerable than I'd ever let myself feel.

Angela didn't flinch. She didn't look away. Instead, she reached up, her hand pressing against my chest as if she could feel the darkness inside me—and it didn't scare her. "I am not afraid," she said, her voice steady, her eyes never leaving mine. "Even if you are the devil…" A small, bitter smile tugged at her lips. "I would willingly go to hell with you."

Something inside me cracked open.

I had never met a woman like her—strong, dominating, ruthless, yet willing to stand beside me in the flames. In all my years, in all my lifetimes, I had never known someone who could match the darkness inside me and not only survive it but embrace it.

My fingers traced the line of her jaw, my touch gentle, almost reverent. This woman was different. Special. And for the first time in my existence, I found myself treating her differently than any other—unconsciously, instinctively, because she was unique.

A chuckle rumbled in my chest, dark and amused. "You're something else, Angela," I murmured, my voice laced with something dangerously close to admiration.

And then we arrived.

The helicopter touched down in front of Walter's mansion—a monstrous, sprawling estate of stone and iron, its gates sealed tight, its windows glowing with defiance.

The soldiers who had accompanied us wasted no time. They poured out of the chopper, their boots hitting the ground with purpose, their weapons raised as they moved toward the entrance.

But the men inside weren't willing to surrender.

Through the comms, we could hear the shouts, the threats—Walter's loyalists refusing to yield, their voices thick with defiance. "Only Walter and his son can give the order to open these gates!" one of them snarled. "We don't take commands from traitors!"

I felt the familiar urge to slaughter them all where they stood, to paint the walls red with their defiance. But the soldier beside me, his face pale with panic, turned to me. "Sir," he stammered, his voice shaking. "I—I will bring Walter's head back. To make them surrender."

I exhaled sharply, my fingers tightening around the hilt of my knife. "You have five minutes," I said, my voice a low growl. "Or I'll do it myself."

The soldier nodded frantically, his face slick with sweat as he turned and sprinted toward the mansion's gates. I watched him go, my fingers drumming impatiently against the hilt of my knife, the blade humming with the promise of violence. Five minutes. That was all he had before I turned this place into a slaughterhouse.

I didn't have to wait long.

Within minutes, Soldier stumbled back, his arms straining under the weight of what he carried. In one hand, he held Walter's severed head by the hair, the lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky. In the other, he dragged a hospital bed—Tyler lay on it, his body trembling violently, his face ashen with terror.

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