The mansion's living room was a battlefield. Bullet casings littered the floor like fallen leaves, shattered glass crunched beneath heavy boots, and the stench of gunpowder thickened the air.
Pedro led his squad through the chaos, advancing with grim determination. Bullets ricocheted off their bodies, sparking against walls and furniture, but Pedro and his men pressed forward like juggernauts, unyielding.
Emilio fired controlled bursts from his M16, taking down two intruders trying to flank from the hallway. The assailants crumpled, blood pooling beneath them. The other guards, hardened by years under Don Estello's roof, kept their formation tight, laying down suppressive fire.
Pedro barked orders over the din, his voice a razor through the chaos."John! Emilio! Clear the dining room and the kitchen! Keep them from circling back!"
John, the youngest of the volunteers, sprinted forward, rifle up, eyes scanning every corner. His heart pounded, his breaths came in short gasps. The adrenaline made him feel invincible, just like Pedro had said it would.
But then—
A shadow loomed from the stairwell. Mario, the leader of Team Bravo, grinned from the landing above, a fistful of white grains in his hand. "Hey!" he shouted, arm cocked back.
John barely had time to react. The rice burst forth in a cloud, dusting him head to toe. A cold chill seeped through his skin as the amulet around his neck burned against his chest, the enchantment breaking with a low hiss.
John's eyes widened. "Rice!" he screamed, stumbling backward.
The bullet caught him in the chest. Blood sprayed, the force throwing him back against the wall. Another shot followed—this time through his neck. John slumped to the ground, eyes glazed over, the life fading from them in seconds.
Pedro's eyes locked onto John's crumpled form, blood pooling beneath him. The sound of that last, strangled gasp echoed in his mind. "Shit," he muttered, teeth gritting.
"They know!" Pedro roared. "They figured it out! Maintain distance! Keep them from closing in!"
Jeremy hovered over Linkman's shoulder, eyes darting between the progress bar on the screen and the hallway leading to the living room. The gunfire was getting closer, each burst sending a fresh wave of dread through his gut.
"How much longer?" Jeremy snapped, voice taut.
Linkman's fingers flew over the keyboard, sweat dripping from his brow. The progress bar ticked to 99%.
"Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, tapping his foot. "Almost there..."
A deafening crash echoed from the hallway. One of their men staggered back into the room, blood streaming down his leg. He collapsed against the wall, eyes rolling back, fingers twitching around his rifle.
Jeremy cursed, grabbed his radio. "Charlie team, report! What the hell is happening out there?"
"We're getting overrun!" Charlie's leader shouted, gunfire crackling through the speakers. "They're like fucking tanks! Bullets aren't doing shit!"
Linkman's screen beeped. 100% – Transfer Complete.
"Got it!" Linkman yanked the drive, shoved it into his tactical vest, and bolted for the door. "We're moving!"
Jeremy grabbed his rifle, slamming a fresh mag into the chamber. "Covering fire!"
They sprinted through the hallway, their boots pounding against the tiled floor. Two of their men remained behind, firing wildly into the living room, where Pedro's squad had taken cover behind overturned furniture.
Pedro's eyes zeroed in on the fleeing operatives. Linkman and Jeremy, the two carrying the drive, were making a break for the back exit.
"There!" Pedro shouted, raising his M16. He unleashed a burst of automatic fire, bullets tearing through drywall and shattering glass.
Linkman staggered, a round catching him in the leg. He screamed, stumbling against the doorframe. Jeremy grabbed him by the vest and dragged him forward. "Move!"
Two more operatives fell, blood spraying as Pedro's rounds found their marks. The remaining men in black turned and bolted, abandoning their posts as Pedro's squad pressed forward.
Mario stood atop the second-floor balcony, his face a mask of fury and desperation. Below, Linkman and Jeremy staggered across the lawn, heading for the fence.
Mario spotted Pedro's squad regrouping below, their medallions glowing faintly in the moonlight. Without hesitation, he grabbed another pouch of rice, ripping it open and letting the grains cascade down like a curse.
The rice rained over Emilio, who was leading the charge. His amulet hissed, the protective aura shattering. Emilio's eyes widened in terror. "Pedro!"
A gunshot rang out.
Emilio's body jerked as the bullet tore through his chest. Blood splattered across the manicured grass. He dropped to his knees, mouth opening in a silent scream before he crumpled forward, dead.
"Emilio!" Pedro roared, eyes blazing.
Linkman and Jeremy stumbled through the shadows, panting, bleeding, dragging themselves toward the van parked just beyond the fence. The air was thick with smoke and the echo of distant gunfire.
Jeremy shoved Linkman through the open fence gap first, then glanced back at the mansion. The screams of dying men echoed through the night. The Purnas guards were advancing, unstoppable, like vengeful phantoms.
Mario's voice crackled through the radio. "Sir, what now? They're goddamn invincible!"
Jeremy's jaw clenched. "Forget them. We're done here. Rendezvous at extraction point East. We're ghosts now."
"Understood," Mario said, though his voice trembled.
Jeremy helped Linkman into the van, slamming the door behind them. He fell into the passenger seat, hands shaking as he ripped off his balaclava. Linkman clutched the hard drive against his chest, eyes wild, sweat drenching his face.
"What the fuck were those men?" Linkman muttered, voice breaking.
Jeremy didn't answer. His eyes stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, hands gripping the dashboard. The trauma of what he'd seen etched into his mind like a scar.
The van's engine roared to life, tires kicking up gravel as it sped off into the night, vanishing into the labyrinth of forest roads. Behind them, the mansion loomed like a haunted monolith, smoke rising from shattered windows and bullet-riddled walls.
And inside, Pedro knelt beside Emilio's lifeless body, his fists clenched, blood and sweat dripping down his face.
"This isn't over," he muttered, eyes cold as death. "Not by a long shot."
Jeremy and Linkman emerged from the dense line of trees, twigs snapping beneath their boots as they stumbled down the uneven slope toward the water's edge. Sweat glistened on their foreheads, and their breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts.
Linkman clutched his side, blood seeping through his gloved fingers. The bullet wound in his leg had slowed him down, but he pressed on, jaw clenched, eyes darting around the deserted lakeshore.
A cluster of ramshackle huts dotted the coastline, their tin roofs rustling with each gust of wind. Faint yellow light seeped from the cracks of one hut, casting thin shadows across the wooden portwalk.
A lone boat bobbed in the water, tethered loosely to a rotting post. A local, middle-aged and wearing a ragged shirt and a wide-brimmed hat, sat at the stern, casually puffing on a cigarette.
Jeremy tightened his grip on Linkman's arm. "There. Move."
The two men staggered toward the boat, their boots thudding against the wooden planks. The local glanced up, eyes squinting through the haze of smoke. He said nothing as Jeremy and Linkman clambered aboard, collapsing against the damp wooden floor.
Linkman winced, hissing as the pain flared up his leg. Jeremy ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt, tied it tight above the wound, and pulled the tarpaulin over both of them. The heavy canvas cover reeked of fish and oil, its weight pressing down like a suffocating blanket.
Beneath the cover, the world shrank to darkness. Jeremy's hand tightened around the hard drive hidden in his tactical vest. Mission success. But the pounding in his head told a different story—the sight of Pedro's men shrugging off bullets like they were mosquito bites, the look in Jeremy's eyes when he watched his men fall.
He closed his eyes. Focus. Just get to the next checkpoint.
The boat rocked gently as the local untied the rope and shoved off from the dock. The motor sputtered, then roared to life, its low growl blending with the wind as they drifted into the open lake.
High up on a slope overlooking Marawi, a black van sat cloaked in the shadows of towering trees. The van was unmarked, indistinguishable from any other utility vehicle in the area. But inside, the scene was far from ordinary.
The back compartment was a fully outfitted mobile command center—monitors embedded in the walls, wires snaking across the floor, a satellite uplink antenna extending through the roof. A large digital map displayed the Purnas mansion, the lake extraction point, and a blinking dot moving steadily away from the shore.
"Sir, they're leaving the extraction point," the operator said, his eyes fixed on the screen. "Mission success."
The commander stood behind him, arms crossed. His face was obscured by the glow of the monitors, the light catching the edge of a scar running down his jawline.
"Good," he said, voice even, emotionless. "Wrap it up. Inform HQ."
The operator nodded, tapping out a series of encrypted messages. The line went silent.
Outside, the disguised operatives, still clad in civilian clothing, gathered around the van. Their faces were tense, eyes hollow. None of them spoke as they filed inside, the van's door slamming shut behind them.
Inside, the commander adjusted his earpiece. "Initiate cleanup. All assets, extract and exfil. We're done here."
The streets of Marawi were a chaotic scene of flashing lights and drifting smoke. Police cars and ambulances swarmed the area, red and blue lights painting the buildings in frantic hues. Officers shouted into radios, paramedics hauled bodies onto stretchers, and firefighters hosed down the last of the flames.
A crowd of onlookers had gathered behind the barricades, their faces pale, eyes wide. Mothers clutched their children close, shielding them from the sight of blood-soaked sidewalks and shattered glass.
"What happened?" a man whispered to another, eyes fixed on the Purnas mansion.
"They said it was a gang shootout," the other replied, voice hushed. "But... those weren't just gangsters. Those guys had gear, real gear."
A police officer pushed them back, waving them away. "Clear the area! Nothing to see here!"
But there was plenty to see.
Up on the hill, the mansion loomed like a haunted silhouette, its once pristine walls now scarred with bullet holes and scorched from the explosions.
Inside, Pedro and his remaining men were regrouping, securing what was left of the house. Blood smeared the floors, bodies lay twisted and lifeless, and the scent of burnt gunpowder lingered like a ghost.
Pedro crouched beside Kyle and Emilio's body, his jaw clenched tight, eyes dark with fury. His amulet lay broken in his hand, the enchantment shattered by the rice that now mingled with the blood on the floor.
"We'll bury them," Pedro muttered, his voice hollow, his gaze fixed on John's lifeless face. "And then we'll hunt every last one of them down."
The boat skimmed across the lake, its motor humming against the gentle lapping of waves. Jeremy and Linkman lay still beneath the tarp, the rhythmic rocking of the boat doing little to soothe their nerves.
Linkman's breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, his wound staining the tarpaulin beneath them. Jeremy gritted his teeth, the ache in his own shoulder a distant echo to the pulsing pain in his head.
"They weren't human," Linkman muttered, eyes staring blankly at the underside of the tarp. "You saw it too, right?"
Jeremy said nothing, but his jaw clenched.
"Bullets didn't do a damn thing," Linkman continued, voice trembling. "And the rice... What the hell kind of magic bullshit was that?"
Jeremy swallowed, closing his eyes. The faces of the dead men flashed behind his eyelids—John gasping as the bullet tore through his chest, His men screaming into the radio, the unstoppable advance of Pedro's men.
"Just forget it," Jeremy said finally, voice hard. "HQ will handle it. Our job's done."
Linkman turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "And what if they come after us?"
Jeremy sighed. "We'll just do exactly what we're told to do. The rest is up to our employers."
The boat continued its journey, slipping further into the fog-covered lake, carrying them away from the chaos and into the waiting arms of the night.