HeartEater clung to the roof of the black van, unmoving. His body was rigid, deathlike, blending into the shadows above. The city air was thick with rot and humidity, but he didn't breathe it. He didn't move.
Until now.
With a fluid twist, he gripped the side handle and swung himself downward. His tattered cloak flared with the night wind, revealing the pale glint of two curved sickles—silent, merciless, and ready.
He moved toward the driver's window.
CRACK.
The sickle punched through the glass, bone, and brain in a single vicious motion. The driver never even saw it coming.
Felipe Morales slumped forward, his blood staining the steering wheel as the van lurched violently. Tires screeched in agony. The metal husk veered off course, crashed through a trash bin, and slammed into a lamppost with a thunderous crunch that echoed across the empty street.
HeartEater leapt off the roof a second before the impact.
His boots hit the asphalt with a heavy thud. He stood upright, silent, both hands now empty—but only for a moment.
Steam hissed from the mangled engine block. Something stirred inside the van.
The back doors burst open.
Four men tumbled out—bloodied but alive. Ramón Díaz. Diego Vázquez. Javier Ruiz. Carlos Herrera. Their hands were shaking, guns up. Fear thickened the air.
"There—there he is!" Javier gasped, eyes wide, voice high and ragged. "Holy shit! It's him!"
HeartEater tilted his head ever so slightly—a slow, reptilian motion. Like a predator considering which limb to tear off first.
"F-Fire! Just shoot him! SHOOT HIM, DAMN IT!" Ramón screamed, his voice cracking under the weight of terror.
Gunfire erupted—muzzle flashes stuttering like dying stars.
But HeartEater moved.
A gray blur and a shadow fused into one. He charged forward, leapt off Javier's back—using the panicking man as a springboard—and twisted midair.
He landed silently behind Diego.
"¡Diego, behind you!" Ramón shrieked, but it was too late.
Steel kissed flesh.
The hidden sickle punched through Diego's jaw and tore out the top of his skull in a geyser of blood and shattered bone. Diego's scream died before it could reach his throat. His eyes rolled back, blank and unseeing, as HeartEater yanked the weapon free with a wet crack.
"You son of a bitch! You monster!" Ramón howled, firing wildly.
HeartEater turned to retrieve his other blade—still embedded in Felipe's corpse behind the wheel. He ripped it free, the blood still warm and dripping.
Three guns turned toward him.
Bullets sang through the air.
He ducked. Spun. Grabbed Diego's cooling corpse and dragged it into his arms—using it as a makeshift shield.
Rounds tore through Diego's body, bursting it apart in a mist of gore and fragmented bone.
Then, with a grunt of force, HeartEater threw the corpse.
It hit the three gunmen like a cannonball.
They staggered under the weight of their dead comrade, just long enough.
He was already there.
SLICK.
The first sickle sliced through Carlos Herrera's temple. Blood fountained, and the man collapsed in a twitching heap.
SHRIP.
The second weapon drove through Javier Ruiz's throat, bursting from the back of his neck like a crimson spike. The scream turned into a gurgle.
Only one remained.
Ramón Díaz.
HeartEater spun, cloak snapping in the wind, and slammed a boot into Ramón's chest. The man was flung backward, crashing into the alley wall.
Bricks cracked. Dust exploded outward.
Ramón dropped to his knees, helmet cracked, blood streaming down his face. He coughed, shivering, staring at the figure walking toward him like death incarnate.
"P-Please…" Ramón whispered, his voice broken, childlike. "Don't kill me. I was just following orders... please..."
HeartEater stopped a few steps away. His silhouette loomed in the pale moonlight. Both sickles dripped red. His cloak billowed like smoke from Hell itself.
"Where is Victor Serrano?"
His voice was a jagged whisper—low, metallic, like a rusted blade scraping through gravel.
Ramón opened his mouth, but only a dry squeak escaped. Then—
A hoarse voice called out from the mound of bodies.
"U-Upstairs…" someone wheezed. "Top floor… Green Wolf Tower… h-he's got private guards… a panic room… vault-level security…"
HeartEater gave a slow nod.
He sheathed his sickles with a whisper of steel sliding into scabbards.
From his belt, he pulled a small clear capsule—glowing orange from within.
He dropped it.
The capsule shattered on the concrete, releasing a faint hiss.
Ramón stared at the mist curling around his knees. "Wh-what is that…?"
He sniffed.
Then he choked.
Ramón clutched his chest, coughing violently. His veins bulged, turning dark and blue beneath his skin.
His stomach twisted.
Then—
He vomited blood. Thick, clotted, alive.
He screamed.
His body convulsed, muscles locking in spasms as his skin bubbled and split. Red foam gushed from his lips. His eyes melted, streaming down his cheeks like hot wax. His ears bled, and a low, primal wail tore from his lungs.
His brain boiled.
Ramón collapsed, twitching and leaking.
And then—he was still.
A puddle of him steamed on the alley floor.
HeartEater didn't flinch.
He stood motionless. A sentinel of judgment.
Then, he turned.
From his belt, he fired his grappling gun—thwip—the hook embedded high above.
With a single pull, his body soared into the night sky, cloak trailing behind like a funeral banner.
He landed on a rooftop.
The city glowed below, but his eyes locked on one tower—taller, colder, slick with wealth and rot.
Green Wolf Tower.
He stepped forward.
Every step thundered like a judge's gavel, sealing fate.
Death was coming.