The fleeting relief of surviving the disaster had barely settled before it was torn apart by the bodyguard's barely concealed smirk.
At first, he had looked just as shaken—but he recovered quickly. It had taken several long minutes before the panicked screaming stopped. He hid his contempt well, but not well enough. The young master caught it, and his face flushed red, shame and fury boiling inside him like a volcano about to erupt.
He clenched his jaw and glanced around. The forest, draped in darkness, loomed like silent sentries—still, watchful. The night wind hissed through the trees, whispering secrets in the leaves. And in the distance, the heavy metal door of the escape tunnel now gaped open, a large chunk blown apart. The creature was almost out.
"Young master, there aren't many of them—I'll cover you, and we'll break through!"
the bodyguard said, pulling out his pistol. He kept his voice low, but the corner of his mouth curled with mocking amusement, like he was watching a badly written play where the actor didn't know when to quit.
"Give me the damn gun!"
the young master snapped. Burning with rage, he snatched the revolver from the guard's hand, kicked the car door open, and leapt out.
"Young master!" the bodyguard shouted, cursing under his breath. Staying put and waiting for backup was clearly the smartest move. Rushing out now was suicide.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunshots ripped through the night. Bullets flew like beasts set loose, slamming into the shattered iron gate, sending sparks and metal fragments flying.
Out of bullets, the young master yanked spare rounds from the bodyguard's pocket and jammed them into the revolver, his hands rough, angry.
"Come on! Get out here! I dare you!"
he shouted as he reloaded. His movements were quick—too quick for a beginner. He'd clearly handled guns before. But no skill could hide the panic and humiliation raging inside him.
Then—he saw it.
A flicker of movement behind the trees. A shadow.
"There you are, you bastard!"
he snarled, and charged like a starving wolf. Madness flashed in his eyes. As if killing that figure in the woods would somehow wipe away the shame he felt.
The bodyguard cursed again, pulled out his backup pistol, and took off after him. He kept glancing over his shoulder, toward the tunnel—watching, listening. But the young master's figure was already disappearing into the trees, losing control with every step.
Deeper in the woods, something deadly was waiting.
Quiet.
Patient.
Ready.
---
Night hung thick and heavy, rain like needles falling in relentless waves.
The scent of blood lingered in the wind—an omen of what was to come.
The ground was slick, the trees trembling as if they held their breath.
Rain drummed against the earth, a rhythmic ticking, counting down the inevitable.
Far ahead, Maverick stood motionless behind a tree, cold drops sliding down his forehead.
His left shoulder was bleeding, rain washing crimson streaks down his arm—but he didn't react.
He had been waiting.
A near-invisible piano wire stretched across the narrow path ahead, hidden by the night and the storm.
He had coated it with a thin layer of oil to prevent water from pooling on its surface, ensuring it remained undetectable.
The wind, the rain, the sound of footsteps—all conspired to mask the trap's presence.
He knew they would chase him.
And he knew exactly where he needed them to go.
"You think I'm running,"Maverick mused coldly.
"But I'm only leading the prey into the cage."
This wasn't just a fight—it was a performance.
The stage was set.
All he needed was for them to play their parts.
And then—
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Gunfire erupted, tearing through tree bark, splintering branches.
Maverick stumbled, his movements erratic, appearing desperate.
Then—
"Bang!"
His body lurched forward.
He had been shot. Or at least—it needed to look that way.
"You're finished, rat! You're done!!"
The young master screamed into the storm.
"Bang! Bang!"
---
The undergrowth shuddered violently.
A figure tumbled into the bushes, hitting the ground hard—only to scramble to his feet, staggering forward, running again.
The young master's breath came in ragged gasps, rain mixing with the fire in his eyes.
His revolver was empty, but his fury kept him moving.
He was exhausted, drained, but the sight of his prey nearly escaping pushed him forward with renewed madness.
The bodyguard kept close, steps measured, controlled.
Then—
Something wasn't right.
He frowned, reaching out and yanking the young master's arm, stopping him dead in his tracks.
"Stop!"
"What the hell?!"
The young master snarled, trying to shake free.
"He's right there! Are you insane?!"
He rammed his empty revolver against the bodyguard's forehead, pure rage consuming him.
The bodyguard didn't react.
His gaze was locked ahead—calculating, cautious.
He wasn't an ordinary fighter.
He was an experienced soldier.
And right now—his instincts screamed danger.
A bolt of lightning split the sky, briefly illuminating something unnatural in the dark.
A faint glimmer.
Reflected light.
"...Piano wire?"
His voice was barely a whisper.
The storm blurred everything—but there, stretched between two trees, was a nearly invisible silver thread.
The kind that could cut a man in half.
The kind laid by an experienced killer.
The bodyguard slowly reached out, gloved fingers brushing against the wire.
The young master followed his gaze—but saw nothing.
"Are you screwing with me?!"
He hated being toyed with.
Hated the smug airs of men who thought they were better than him.
The bodyguard smirked, ignoring him.
"An old trick."
He flicked on his tactical flashlight.
A single beam of light cut through the rain—revealing the deadly trap in stark detail.
The young master paled.
Then—
Ten meters ahead, a shadow rose.
"That bastard!"
Furious, the young master lifted his gun, pulling the trigger.
"Click! Click! Click!"
Empty.
No bullets left.
And the figure didn't move.
A young man. Short hair, soaked through, mud streaked across his clothes.
His expression was cold.
Unshaken.
Not just another fighter—but a survivor.
A beast shaped by war.
His eyes met the young master's—a sharp stare that held not hatred, but boredom.
Like watching a child throw a tantrum.
The bodyguard's grip tightened, his gun raising slowly, barrel aligning with the stranger's forehead.
But Maverick didn't flinch.
Instead—he smiled.
Just slightly.
A smirk, dripping with something far too calm for the situation.
The bodyguard's instincts screamed again.
That smile.
That was wrong.
That was trouble.
In a split second—he squeezed the trigger.