The hall ignited into a cacophony of man-made thunder, the guards' fingers finally committing to the squeeze—triggers depressing in pathetic slow-motion crawls, hammers falling like drunk sloths, chambers rotating with lazy, audible clicks that echoed like bad punchlines.

Muzzles belched white-orange hellfire in strobing bursts, the air instantly thick with the acrid choke of cordite, scorched powder, and the underlying rot of fear-piss soaking their pants.

Brass casings arced golden and tinkling, pinging off marble like cheap wind chimes in a hurricane, bullets shrieking forth in supersonic fury, their trails ripping sonic booms that would deafen mortals.

But me? I was the punchline they never saw coming. Time bent to my will—syrupy, hilarious sludge where their elite training looked like toddlers finger-painting with crayons.

"Aw, boys," I boomed, voice rumbling like a subwoofer in their chests, grinning wide as the first volley slammed home. "You call that shooting? My grandma used to knits faster—and she's been dead for so long now!"

Rounds hammered my torso—dozens of kinetic sledgehammers thudding dull against the nano-weave suit, fabric compressing with meaty whumps that vibrated ribs like a badass massage.

Bullets mushroomed flat against the impenetrable layers, peeling away in smoking lead smears that scorched black streaks across the chest, heat blooming deep bruises that tingled like foreplay.

One lucky shit grazed my bicep, parting suit fibers in a hiss of vaporized threads—skin beneath nicked shallow, blood welling hot and sticky, trickling down arm in crimson rivulets that I flicked away with a chuckle.

"Tickles! You kiss your mothers with those aim skills?"

I blurred forward—boot cratering marble into explosive dust clouds, fragments pelting faces like buckshot confetti, slicing cheeks open in blooming red smiles. Shockwave bowled the front line, knees buckling with wet ligament pops, rifles jerking skyward in wild sprays that stitched the ceiling with harmless spark showers.

First gorilla—scarred mug twisting in bug-eyed horror, sweat pouring salty rivers—I ghosted in front, snatching his rifle mid-burst.

"Borrow this?" Barrel crumpled like tinfoil in my grip, screeching metal tear as the chamber backfired in a glorious orange bloom, vaporizing his hands into charred meat stumps—fingers flying like bloody popcorn, bone shards embedding walls with wet thunks.

He screamed guttural, throat raw and vibrating.

"Shh," I taunted, driving knuckles through his gut—piercing Kevlar and abs with squelching resistance, hand erupting out back clutching spine loops and steaming intestines.

Yanked free in a stringy rip, guts slopping floor in glossy piles, blood scalding my forearm like fresh coffee. "Oops! Pulled your plug, buddy. How's that for a gut feeling?"

He folded, dragging entrails like wet ropes, pink lung-froth bubbling lips. "Crawl for it, champ—maybe you'll win a participation trophy!"

I pivoted into the storm—bullets whiffing hair partings, one slamming thigh with a thunk that bloomed purple heat under suit, another cracking forearm guard with a spark shower. Weaved micro-sways, rounds exploding walls behind in marble dust geysers.

I leapt balcony—air howling displacement boom, bowling three goons mid-fall, bodies pinwheeling slow, rifles spinning comets.

Landed perch-crash, planks splintering into stakes that impaled one's thigh—bone crunching through meat, blood pooling thick syrup.

"Pinned ya!" I laughed as he wailed falsetto.

Five rushed—knives silver blurs, shotguns orange belches. "Party time!" Dodged pellets in hair-breadth weaves, stray shot peppering shoulder—suit shredding in smoky puffs, skin prickling unmarred beneath.

I snatched shotgun, wrenching with shoulder pop—his arm flopping useless meat sock. Rammed barrel down another's throat: "Open wide!"

Muzzle flash—head erupting in backward geyser, brain sludge splattering mates in wet gray globs, eyeballs popping in juicy bursts, dangling by optic strings.

"Brains over brawn? Nah—brains on the wall!"

I moved so fast, face-grabbed another—knives squishing his one socket, thumb bursting the other orb in grape-pops, viscous goo squirting warm.

"Eye for an eye? How about two!" My knee rose—skull caving with mush crunch, frontal lobe imploding, brain extruding from nostrils in thick paste. He seized, shitting himself, pants bulging pungent. "Smells like victory—and your lunch!"

SMG hoser—bullets stitching phantom where I'd stood. Blurred behind: "Tag, you're it!" My impossibly fast and strong hand plunged through his back—ribs parting like wet cardboard, fingers wrapping around his heart in a vice grip.

"Got your ticker!" Squeezed until it ruptured with a squish, yanked the pulped jelly free in an arterial spray that painted the balcony in crimson abstract.

Vaulted far rail—fingers crumbling stone handholds, bullets chasing in drumfire on my back, impacts jarring but suit glowing blue-absorb, one cracking a rib with a snap that knit back fiery-instant.

Dropped into the final cluster—four mercs shielding Dmitri's retreat, their shots frantic thuds that bloomed welts across my chest.

I Crashed like a meteor—bodies bowling, one arm spiral-torn at the shoulder, artery fountaining in rhythmic arcs. "Limb-o dance!"

Jaw-ripped another—mandibles prying apart in velcro flesh-tear, tongue flopping exposed. "Say ahh—permanently!"

Dmitri bolted from his throne, limping on a wounded leg, face bloated with terror-sweat, gold teeth clacking as he scrambled toward a side exit. "Freak! Monster!"

"Monster? Nah—I'm the punchline!" I called after him, bullets still pinging my chest in harmless pancakes. The side door splintered under his desperate shoulder-slam, bloody handprints smearing the frame as he disappeared into the deeper vaults.

His panicked footsteps echoed away, uneven and frantic.

I let him run. For now.

Had to clear the immediate threats first. Boot-stomped the last merc's pistol arm—bones crunching to dust, hand mangling into ground-meat pulp, fingers twitching in their nerve-dance. "Handshake denied!"

The grand hall fell into sudden, ringing silence—just the drip-drip of blood from the balconies, the wheeze of dying men, the crackle of small fires where plasma had scorched wood.

Then Ava's comm exploded with her manic cackle, gunfire crackling frantic behind her voice, the wet thuds of bodies hitting floor in the east wing. "Eros, you selfish fuck! Sounds like you turned your side into a butcher's orgy. Got a dozen piñatas here begging to pop—move your god-ass and join the fun!"

"Coming, love," I growled back, voice echoing off blood-slick walls. I scanned the carnage one more time—bodies piled, dismembered, decorating Dmitri's grand hall in a way that would never wash out.

The throne sat empty, toppled on its side in a puddle of gore. "Keep 'em warm. I'll bring the party favors."

I followed Dmitri's blood trail—thick smears along the wall, drops spattering the marble in a breadcrumb path toward the vaults. The rat was wounded, panicked, but still dangerous. And somewhere in this maze, Volkov was waiting—the actual sniper, Dmitri's ace in the hole.

Booted down the corridor, marble cracking under each stride, boots squelching through ankle-deep viscera slop. The walls were painted in arterial sprays that dripped warm patters on my shoulders.

The air hummed heavy—copper-iron rot mixing with gunpowder residue, and beneath it all, something else. Jasmine. Ava's perfume, cutting through the slaughter stink like a promise of more violence to come.

I burst into the east wing—a smaller atrium, vaulted ceilings laced with shadowed alcoves, moonlight slashing through cracked skylights in silver blades that turned the blood pools into mirrors.

Ava danced death's ballet center-stage.

Her curves were lethal in the torn nano-suit, gore-matted hair whipping wild as she moved, dual vibro-knives humming that ultrasonic blue whine as she carved through six remaining mercs.

They'd tried to ambush her—bad fucking idea.

One lunged, knife arcing throat-high. She parried with a lazy flick, her blade slicing through his wrist tendons with a whip-snap sound. His hand flopped useless, now just a meat puppet dangling by skin.

Blood fountained in rhythmic arcs as his heart kept pumping, not yet aware he was already dead.

"Missed me, sweetie?" she purred, spinning low—her knife plunging upward into his groin, twisting in a vicious rip that mangled genitals into bloody ruin. His scream pitched eunuch-high as he crumpled, clutching at the pulp that used to make him a man.

Movement from the high alcoves—snipers repositioning, red dots dancing frantic across the floor, searching for targets. First crack echoed—high-velocity round screaming down, slamming my shoulder mid-stride.

Suit compressed with a brutal thunk, kinetic bloom exploding into deep bruise fire that radiated through my chest. The bullet flattened into a pancake smear, peeling away in smoking lead. I staggered half a step, pain spiking sharp but fading to an ecstasy tingle almost immediately.

"Ooh, foreplay! You shoot better than your boss—almost felt that!"

Ava laughed wild, dodging her own hail—a round grazing her thigh, suit holding but blood trickling hot down her leg. "Took you long enough, Eros! These rooftop Romeos think they're Cupid—keep trying to pin me!"

I scanned the atrium while she finished her dance—three more mercs dropping as her knives found kidneys, throats, eye sockets. The alcoves above held at least two snipers, maybe three. And somewhere deeper, Dmitri's blood trail continued, leading toward what looked like reinforced vault doors.

"Ava—flank left, herd any runners toward the vaults. I'll climb and spank the sky pervs."

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