The lights in the penthouse were dim—muted amber reflecting off marble floors, gold fixtures, and predator heads mounted like trophies along the black obsidian walls.
Victor Serrano stood before the colossal screen, the glow casting flickering ghosts across his grotesque frame. His silk suit strained against his gut as he drew on a thick cigar, the ember flaring like a red eye. The fedora sat low, casting his face in shadow—save for the grin. That terrible grin.
The screen showed chaos.
Gunfire. Screams.
The wet slap of meat. A gurgled plea. A sick crunch.
Victor exhaled, smoke curling like the grin itself. He chuckled, deep and slow.
"He's here."
Milo flinched at the words, his bony fingers twitching at the lapel of his jacket. He looked ready to bolt.
Katsuo didn't move. The ex-yakuza stood silent at Victor's right—arms crossed, eyes hard as stone. He had the stillness of a sniper before the shot.
Victor adjusted his green-and-black tie, and turned.
"Full lockdown. Elevators. Stairwells. Lobby. Put everything we have between me and that thing. If he wants me, make him earn every inch in blood."
"Yes, sir," Katsuo replied with ice in his voice. He gestured to Milo, who fumbled with his earpiece and started barking orders.
Victor turned back to the screen, his eyes glinting under the brim.
"Let's see how long the bastard lasts."
---
Far below, the night was heavy. Clouds choked the moonlight. Thunder rumbled like a distant war drum. The wind howled through New York's concrete canyons.
And at the base of Green Wolf Tower, the ground trembled.
Behind the glass doors of the massive corporate lobby, a small army of mercenaries stood ready. Military-grade rifles. Custom armor. Kevlar masks. Every pillar and hallway covered. They were killers. Veterans. Some had hunted warlords. Others had been them.
Still... they sweated.
One of them shifted his grip on the rifle, glancing at the dark outside.
Then—
WHHRRRRRRRR—
From the shroud of mist above, a dark figure fell.
Not like a man. Like a demon descending from heaven's failure.
The glide-suit flared out, catching the wind, wings spread wide like some twisted angel of death. He landed before the tower entrance with the impact of a missile—concrete cracking beneath his boots, cloak rising like a predator's hood.
Stillness.
A breath.
The lobby doors slid open with an electronic hiss.
The guards raised rifles in unison, red laser sights stabbing the fog.
The entrance was—
Empty.
"Where the hell is he?" one guard murmured.
CRASH.
Glass shattered to their right—an explosion of shards and fury.
He came in like a storm.
Cloak flared. Sickles flashed—one curved like a crescent moon, the other like a fang. He landed in a crouch, low and poised.
Then he moved.
One guard fell before he could scream—a sickle driven through the pelvis, lifted screaming into the air, then slammed into the floor hard enough to bounce.
HeartEater twisted—low and brutal—his other sickle cutting clean through the neck of a second man. The head rolled. Blood hit the marble like a thrown bucket.
Bullets erupted.
He rolled sideways, cloak flaring like a shadow's wing. A round clipped his shoulder—no reaction.
He rose into a sprint—too fast, too close—his boot crashing into a guard's knee, inverting the joint with a sickening pop.
As the man collapsed screaming, HeartEater spun and drove the sickle down into the soft meat above the clavicle. Yank. Spray.
A rifle butt swung toward his skull.
He ducked, side-stepped, and let his elbow crash into a jaw with such force it shattered the mandible on contact.
Another man came up behind him—
HeartEater turned on instinct, grabbed the man by the collar, and hurled him into a group of four like a human battering ram. Bodies sprawled in a heap.
He followed like a wolf into wounded prey.
He kicked off a fallen corpse, twisted in midair, and brought both sickles down in mirrored vertical arcs—cleaving two men open from shoulder to hip.
A guard lunged with a combat knife.
HeartEater sidestepped, seized his wrist, and snapped it—then drove a knee into his ribs, sending him crashing into a support pillar. Blood bubbled from his mouth.
The last standing man raised a shotgun.
Too slow.
HeartEater launched forward, springboarding off a chair—boot kicking the weapon up just as it fired into the ceiling. A second later, his sickle pierced the man's gut and angled upward, dragging through organs and lungs until it burst out the collarbone.
The guard gurgled, eyes wide.
"You chose the wrong man to protect," HeartEater growled—his voice like crushed gravel.
SHLICK.
The blade tore through his heart.
Silence.
Only for a breath.
DING.
The elevator across the lobby opened—and another squad poured out. Helmets. Gas masks. Advanced tactics.
HeartEater stood still.
He unclipped three vials from his belt. Each glowed orange.
He threw them.
POP. POP. POP.
The capsules burst mid-air, spraying a thick orange mist across the lobby floor. It hissed as it expanded, curling around legs and creeping into lungs.
Then—
Chaos.
Screams erupted, raw and primal.
Men clutched their faces, clawing at their helmets, skin blistering beneath the surface.
"WHAT IS THIS?!"
"My EYES—AGHH—MY EYES!!"
They dropped their weapons, staggering. Some vomited blood and bile. Others collapsed, limbs twitching, trying to crawl as their insides betrayed them.
One man ripped off his mask—his nose had liquified. He fell backward, convulsing.
Another slammed into a wall, again and again, desperate to die before the pain got worse.
A third collapsed mid-run, intestines dragging behind him like a butchered animal.
When the fog cleared—
Only gore remained.
A slaughterhouse. A cathedral of pain.
And in the middle of it, unmoving—HeartEater. Sickles wet. Eyes glowing faint behind his gray, featureless mask.
He turned toward the elevator.
DING.
The doors opened.
He stepped in, quiet.
The elevator ascended, humming peacefully as blood dripped from his armor, pooling at his feet.
Floor by floor. Closer.
Top Floor – Victor Serrano's Penthouse.
The reckoning had begun.