"Holy Christ!" Doctor Ishaan's voice broke through the silence, trembling with raw horror.
My gaze followed hers, drawn to the scene below—the place where the cops had created a roadblock, encircling the entire entrance.
It looked like a battlefield from a nightmare, a revolver's world brought to life. The once-pristine police vehicles now lay in ruin, twisted and mangled into grotesque shapes that barely resembled their original forms. Some were still ablaze, flames licking hungrily at the shattered metal.
Blood stained the ground in dark, uneven patches, seeping into the cracks like a grotesque mosaic. The air reeked of burnt rubber, scorched flesh, and the metallic tang of blood—a stench that clung to everything, refusing to be ignored.
One moment, my eyes caught the sight of a severed leg, torn clean from the thigh. Another, a human body—head intact, but the rest reduced to a mangled, unrecognizable mess.
Some body parts were scattered like debris, shredded and torn, resembling minced meat more than anything human.
The sheer brutality of it all was overwhelming, a visceral reminder of the carnage Devilin and his crew had unleashed. The place wasn't just a scene of violence—it was a grotesque masterpiece of destruction, painted in blood and fire.
The disgust was palpable, clawing at the edges of my mind. This wasn't just a fight. This was annihilation.
Inside the first floor, where I had left my beautiful Easter with her doors wide open, Devilin emerged from his American Ford truck. His presence was a storm in itself—commanding, terrifying, and utterly unrelenting.
In his hands, he carried a machine gun, its barrel gleaming under the dim light. Bullets coiled around his body like serpents, ready to strike at a moment's notice.
On his head, he wore a helmet—an advanced piece of tech that gave him second-sight vision. The protruding sniper-like lens glinted ominously, scanning the surroundings with mechanical precision.
But it was his left arm that would truly send a chill down anyone's spine. It wasn't flesh and bone—it was a machine gun, seamlessly integrated into his body, a weapon that made him more monster than man.
He was clad in full United States combat gear, but this wasn't standard issue. Every inch of him was armed to the teeth. Knives glinted from holsters, grenades hung like deadly ornaments, and a set of swords crossed ominously over his back. A crossbow rested there too, its bolts ready to pierce through anything—or anyone—in his path.
Devilin wasn't just prepared for war. He was at war.
He strode over to my beautiful Easter—my prized Lamborghini Urus. The doors were left wide open, clear evidence that I'd tried to make my escape. Still, Devilin wasn't one to take chances. With a sly grin and a mocking tone, he addressed me as if I were nothing but a crafty, wily character—"Contratino," he sneered, his derision wrapping around the nickname like a signature move.
After inspecting Easter in person—leaving no detail unchecked—he dismissed the work his goons had done as insufficient. He raised a hand, signaling for one of his men.
"Javanx! Bring me the megaphone," he ordered, his voice carrying both authority and malice.
Without hesitating, Javanx snatched the megaphone from his truck and hurried over. Once he had it in hand, he lifted it to his mouth as if about to send a message meant to echo across the chaos.
"Contratino," Devilin bellowed through the megaphone, his tone dripping with contempt and dark amusement, "I truly believe you've turned into nothing more than a filthy rat—scurrying in circles on this endless run. Ha ha!"
The sound of his laughter, amplified by the cold, metallic device, mingled with the distant echoes of battle. It was an affront—a challenge not only to my defiance but also to the very notion that I might someday escape this life of ceaseless conflict.
"Contratino," Devilin's voice boomed through the megaphone, dripping with mockery and disdain. "At one point, you were a man—respected, feared. What happened to you? What turned you into this pathetic shadow of who you once were?"
He paused, letting the words hang in the air like a noose tightening around my neck. Then, with a sneer, he continued, "But you know what? It doesn't matter. None of it matters. Come out and face me like a real man."
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint crackle of the megaphone.
"Forget it, you pathetic rat," he spat, his tone laced with venom. "I will find you. You can scurry, you can hide, but I will hunt you down."
His voice grew darker, more menacing, as if the very air around him thickened with his rage. "Let me make you a promise, Contratino. Even if you run to the ends of this planet, I will hunt you. Even if you cross galaxies, I will still find you."
The weight of his words pressed down like a storm, relentless and suffocating.
"You are the reason for my existence," he declared, his voice rising with a twisted fervor. "If you try to kill yourself, or if someone else dares to take your life before I do, I will hunt your killer. I will destroy them. And then, I will come for you—beyond death, beyond existence. You are mine, Contratino. And only my hands deserve to free you."
His laughter echoed, cold and unhinged, a sound that clawed at the edges of my resolve.
I almost slipped, my grip faltering on the edge of the window as Devilin's chilling declaration echoed in my mind.
"Careful!" Doctor Ishaan's scream pierced through the chaos, her voice trembling with panic.
Pain surged through me, sharp and unrelenting. My wounded right hand had reopened, the agony tearing through my resolve like fire. It hurt like hell—but it wasn't just the physical pain that consumed me.
I thought of Devilin. Of what he would do to me if he caught me. The hellish torment I felt in my hand would be nothing compared to the suffering he would inflict. Ten thousand fold.
The thought clawed at my mind, triggering a storm of fear and anger deep within me.
But it was that very storm—the raw, unfiltered rage—that gave me the strength to act.
I let go.
I released the protruding windowsill I had been clinging to for what felt like an eternity. Five minutes? More? Time had blurred, stretched thin by desperation.
I had been stuck, trapped, with no way of jumping to the next ledge. But now, fueled by the fire burning inside me, I let go—not just of the windowsill, but of hesitation, of doubt.