The Skinners' chief led his men charging up to the second floor, kicking open doors like debt collectors at a free buffet. Room after room, he barged in, searching frantically for Mr Park— and finding nothing but overturned chairs and ashtrays flung about like a teenager's tantrum.
With every door he kicked open, the chief's frown deepened another notch.
No Park.
Meanwhile, the second-floor corridor had turned into a full-blown war zone. Gunfire rattled like popcorn, flashlight beams danced wildly, and the shouts and screams made it sound like a particularly unfriendly party was in full swing. More and more bodyguards were flooding upstairs from every corner of the villa.
Now the chief had to search while dodging bullets, his frustration boiling over like a kettle left on the hob.
The air was thick with blood and gunpowder. And then—
Zzzzt!
Overhead, the chandelier blazed to life. Rows of blinding incandescent lights along the walls snapped on, turning the dark corridor into a blindingly bright shooting gallery.
One second ago, they were the hunters in the shadows.
One second later, they were deer caught in the world's nastiest set of headlights.
The chief roared, instinctively shielding his eyes. The bodyguards at the staircase had been waiting for just this moment. Gunfire exploded in a deafening volley.
Ratatatatatat!
Bullets poured down like rain. The Skinner warriors were instantly pinned down. One poor chap twitched as he took multiple rounds, stumbled back two steps, and crashed into a rapidly growing puddle of red.
Grinding his teeth, the chief grabbed the last surviving Skinner and dove into a nearby room, using the overturned furniture for cover.
But the enemy's firepower was overwhelming. More bodyguards boxed them in.
One desperate Skinner stuck his steel hook-hand out from behind a dining table and hurled it like an Olympic javelin.
The hook whirled through the air—
Thunk!
—and snagged a bodyguard's leg, yanking him inside like a badly made horror movie prop.
Seizing the moment of confusion, the Skinner warrior hefted the bodyguard like a makeshift shield and charged, cannonball-style, into the enemy, clearing a path with sheer audacity and blood.
The chief, naturally in perfect sync, barreled after him. With two meaty hands, he grabbed a bodyguard apiece, smashing back into the corridor, flinging bodies like sacks of flour. One mighty kick smashed open the last unopened door.
They tumbled inside. The chief slammed the door shut, giving them a few precious seconds to breathe.
But then— that old sixth sense, the one honed by years of fighting— screamed at him: Danger!
Behind a table, someone fired a rocket.
It was one of the young lord's personal guards, taking a shot meant to end it all.
In the split-second between life and death, the last Skinner warrior threw himself into the blast.
"Go... GO—"
BOOM!
His words were swallowed by the explosion.
-----------------
At the rear of the formation, a middle-aged bodyguard crouched low, his frame wrapped in a tactical vest that hung heavy with age and fatigue. The fire that once burned in him during his years of service had long been extinguished by time, blood, and bitter experience.
His calloused fingers clutched a sleek, black pistol—polished smooth from use. It was as if only this cold piece of metal could silence the storm inside him. Memories surged like a tide: once, he had stood tall, a decorated soldier who received medals straight from a general's hand. He had charged into battle, spilled blood for the safety of his homeland. Back then, the light in his eyes burned with such intensity it could have pierced the night.
Now, he pulled the trigger not for honor, but for a paycheck. In this city where everything had a price, he fought simply to keep his family afloat. The commands he followed no longer came from officers, but businessmen. The enemies he faced were vague, often faceless targets—rarely evil, sometimes innocent.
Amid the gunfire and smoke, his hand twitched. The shot missed, ricocheting off a ceiling beam. He was no marksman, but experience had taught him where to aim, how to kill. Still, something had shifted. His eyes locked on a figure in the distance—something the others whispered about, calling it a"monster."
It tore through flame and shadow with terrifying speed. From the body of a fallen guard, it pulled out a still-beating heart and shoved it into its mouth.
Around him, the young guards froze. One doubled over and vomited. Another stumbled backward. Fear flooded the air. But the old soldier didn't flinch. In fact, he found the act almost admirable—clean, decisive, purposeful. A brutal kind of justice, free of pretense.
And then, unexpectedly, he felt it: a surge of loneliness.
In his ears, he could almost hear the cries of fallen comrades—heavy voices filled with the same question that now gnawed at him: How did we end up here, trading conviction for survival?
He closed his eyes, searching the recesses of memory for the reason he once believed in—to defend, to protect, to stand for what was right. But when he opened them, all that remained was a bleak truth: he fought now for money. For food. For rent.
The people in charge were no longer officers in uniform, but men in suits. The enemies they named were rarely monsters—more often just desperate, hunted souls.
He had tried to find justification in the news, to believe in the guilt of those he was sent to kill. But the stories contradicted themselves, logic twisted by politics. All it left him with was confusion—and a crumbling sense of purpose.
His hands trembled. He shifted slightly, almost unconsciously, stepping aside—leaving a gap. A path.
A way out.
As the so-called monster slipped past him in the chaos, one thought struck him like a bullet:
In this absurd slaughter, who's really the monster?
-----------------
The Skinner Chief's eyes flushed blood-red in an instant.
Just as he turned to leave, he suddenly caught a glimpse—
Shen Lu!
The man was tied to a battered chair in the corner, a rag stuffed in his mouth, eyes wide with panic.
Shen Lu nodded furiously, signaling: This way!
The chief lunged, tore the ropes apart.
"Here! Elevator!" Shen Lu gasped, shoving at a wine cabinet.
"Out of the way!" the chief barked, ripping the cabinet clean off its hinges and tossing it aside to reveal a hidden lift.
Shen Lu hit the button; the doors slid open, showing a shaft descending deep underground.
No time for second thoughts. The chief shoved himself in, followed by Shen Lu, punching the control panel into junk just as bullets riddled the walls behind them.
Above, the villa was roaring with rage.
Down in the hidden tunnel, Shen Lu hissed,"They're escaping ahead!"
The chief glimpsed taillights far down the passage and let out a roar, bloodied footprints hammering the floor as he gave chase.
Back upstairs, the bodyguards were scuttling around like ants on a hotplate, shouting uselessly into their radios.
"Mr Park! Where are you?!"
Hidden among them, a young lord— the boss's son— slipped out the front door, a sour look on his face. He didn't even bother turning the headlights on. His luxury car slid down the mountain road, snaking away into the night.
"You think that lab freak can finish Park off?" the young lord asked a nearby guard.
The guard wisely kept his mouth shut.
Not that the young lord was listening. He lit a cigarette, smoke curling around his smug grin.
"That old goat's been playing us for too long. I'm doing my dad a favor, cleaning up this mess. It's not too much, is it?"
"Sir, you mustn't take risks," the bodyguard said, looking deeply uncomfortable.
"Pah! Idiot! Just make sure you leave no fingerprints. If anyone asks, blame the freaks. Got it?"
The bodyguard gulped, nodded, and quietly pulled two mini rocket launchers from the trunk. Then he slipped away into the woods.
Meanwhile, Mr Park had already driven his car into a secret underground passage, far faster than the winding mountain road. As he neared the exit at the mountain's base, he allowed himself a bitter smile.
Those pampered fools upstairs— fattened up by his money, yet they still treated him like a dog.
At that moment, the driver saw something in the rearview mirror— a massive figure charging after them at terrifying speed.
"Sir! Someone's coming!"
Mr Park whipped around and caught sight of it— a giant of a man, eyes blazing like a bull seeing red.
"GO! GO! FASTER!"