Weeks ago — Vencor's Hideout, When Diana was trying to find her Childhood friend.
The room smelled of rust and damp stone. Emma sat against the wall, chains heavy on her wrists, her body thinned from starvation—but her eyes, her eyes burned sharper than ever.
She remembered the first week. No food. No water. Just the weight of chains and Vencor's cruel smile as he whispered:
Vencor: "Let's see how long a Phantom survives without flesh to fuel her."
By the eighth day, her body had begun to give out—vision blurring, heartbeat slowing. She almost welcomed the end.
And then—he came.
---
The Guard
The man was older, late forties, eyes bloodshot, carrying a quiet storm inside him. He set a small tray beside her. Bread. A flask of water. His hands shook as he unlocked her chains just enough to let her eat.
Guard (low voice): "Eat. Slowly."
Emma didn't speak. She studied him—looking for deceit.
But then she noticed something. A worn photograph sticking out of his vest pocket. A girl. Dead eyes.
Emma (hoarse): "…Vencor killed her."
The man froze. His jaw tightened. His silence was confirmation.
Guard (whisper): "…He took my daughter. I won't let him take you too."
---
Days Passed
Every night, the same pattern: he'd slip her food, water, sometimes even bandages. He released her chains just long enough to stop her wounds from rotting, then carefully clasped them back, making sure the marks looked untouched.
When Vencor asked, the guard lied smoothly:
Guard: "She won't survive without treatment. You want her strong, don't you? Not dead."
Vencor smirked, suspicious but convinced.
---
The Guard's Secret
He wasn't just feeding her. He was training her in silence.
Each night, while the cameras blinked dead, he whispered instructions:
Where the blind spots were.
Which guards were loyal, which were weak.
How the locks rotated in sequence.
When the food deliveries came and how long the doors stayed unlatched.
Sometimes he loosened the cuffs fully, letting her stretch, forcing her muscles back into life.
Guard: "You'll get one chance, girl. One. Don't waste it."
---
Emma's Transformation
By the third week, Emma's body had regained strength—her sharp mind sharper still. Every chain, every click of the locks, every guard's patrol step—she memorized it all.
And at night, she began to test herself quietly.
Flexing her wrists until the steel cut her.
Tensing her legs until the muscles no longer trembled.
Whispering plans to herself in the dark.
For the first time since being dragged here, her lips curved in a ghost of a smile.
Emma (to herself): "…Vencor. You starved me to break me. But you only taught me patience."
The Night of the Breakout
The cell reeked of blood and rust. Emma sat chained, head lowered, playing the part of a broken prisoner. But inside, her pulse was steady—counting seconds, waiting for the signal.
The door creaked open. The guard entered with his usual limp, tray in hand. Bread. Water. His eyes flicked to the corner—the camera's red light was dead.
Emma looked up. That was the signal. Tonight.
He set the tray down, unlocked her cuffs fully this time, and whispered through clenched teeth:
Guard: "North hall. Third door. Service exit. Cameras will sleep for four minutes. After that—you're on your own."
Her wrists were free. For the first time in weeks, the weight of iron was gone.
Emma didn't thank him. She only met his eyes and gave a small nod. Both knew words would waste time.
The Guard wanted to hug Emma. As he sees his daughter soul on her.
His tears ran slow.
---
The Run
Emma slipped into the hallway. Her bare feet made no sound against the cold floor. Every detail she'd memorized, every patrol she'd studied—it all unfolded exactly as planned.
Two guards approached from the west corridor. Emma pressed herself against the wall, heart steady. As they passed, she slid behind one, hooked her arm around his throat, and snapped it with a precise twist. The other turned—too late. A jab to the windpipe, a crunch of bone, and he fell silently.
She dragged the bodies into the shadows, blood smearing the wall.
---
The Obstacle
The north hall loomed. But three men blocked the third door—Vencor's personal guards. Professionals, not the sloppy ones.
Emma exhaled slowly. No hesitation. She sprinted forward.
The first raised his rifle—Emma grabbed the barrel, wrenched it sideways, and slammed it into his jaw. The second swung a knife—Emma ducked, drove her elbow into his ribs, and stole the blade. The third lunged—Emma shoved the knife into his throat, twisting until he gurgled and collapsed.
Her breath was sharp, but steady. No wasted movement.
---
The Door
She burst through the third door. A cold night wind hit her face. Freedom—almost.
Behind her, alarms erupted. The cameras had blinked back on. Shouts filled the compound.
The guard appeared behind her, panting, holding a pistol. He tossed it to her.
Guard (shouting): "Run, Emma! Don't look back!"
Emma caught the gun, eyes locked on his for half a second. That was the last time she saw him alive—because seconds later, a bullet tore through his chest from the shadows. He crumpled, blood soaking the dirt.
Vencor's voice echoed:
"You think you can slip my Phantom out from under me?"
Emma didn't freeze. She didn't scream. She just ran into the night, every step carrying the weight of vengeance.
Emma's lungs burned as she sprinted across the dirt yard, alarms screaming behind her. Floodlights swept the compound, locking onto her frame like prey.
A group of Vencor's men roared up on motorcycles, engines snarling. One screeched to a stop right in front of her, blade already raised.
Emma didn't hesitate. She slid low, swept the rider's legs with a sharp kick—he toppled, skull cracking against the ground. She vaulted onto the bike before his body hit the dirt.
VRRMMMMM!!! The engine roared as she twisted the throttle. Gravel sprayed, and Emma shot forward like a bullet into the dark wilderness.
---
The Pursuit
Headlights cut the night. At least six bikes tore after her, exhausts growling like a pack of wolves.
Bullets cracked past her ears—pop pop pop!—sparks spitting off the road. Emma swerved, body low, cutting corners sharp enough to scrape sparks off the asphalt.
One rider pulled up beside her, chain in hand. He swung. Emma ducked—the chain sliced the air where her neck had been. She kicked sideways, her boot smashing his handlebar. The bike flipped, tumbling in fire.
Two more closed in. Emma yanked the pistol the old guard had given her—BANG! BANG!—one tire blew, another rider's chest exploded.
---
The Cliffside Road
The chase thundered onto a cliffside highway, moonlight painting the ocean far below. The road twisted, narrow, deadly.
The remaining three riders boxed her in, forcing her toward the edge. Emma leaned hard, almost scraping her knee on the asphalt, barely clinging to control.
One rider lunged again—Emma braked hard, swerving behind him. With a growl, she rammed her front wheel into his rear. The man screamed as his bike spun off the cliff, swallowed by the black waves below.
Another rider drew a machete, slashing at her arm. Emma grabbed his wrist mid-swing, ripped the blade free, and shoved it straight into his chest. He tumbled, sparks flying as his bike skidded out.
---
The Last Pursuer
Only one remained. He was bigger, faster, better—Vencor's elite. He rammed her side, nearly sending her flying.
Emma's eyes narrowed. She gunned the throttle, leaned in close to his bike, and at the last second—slammed her elbow into his face. Blood splattered. His bike lost balance, swerving into the guardrail—exploding into fire.
Emma sped through the smoke, hair whipping in the wind, eyes forward.
---
Silence.
The road ahead stretched empty. No more headlights behind her. The night was hers—for now.
Her knuckles were white on the handlebars, the pistol heavy at her hip, blood dripping from a gash in her arm.
She didn't smile. She didn't breathe relief. She only whispered, her voice flat:
Emma: "Rest in peace."
The bike howled into the distance, carrying her toward the next battle.
Chapter end