Leon moved with lightning speed, but the black-ops cyborg wasn't slow either.
Just as Leon predicted, the moment he fired his pistol, the enemy's auto-assist system kicked in—an advanced cybernetic program that forcibly jerked the man's body aside, making him dodge bullets like a predator slipping through the jungle. His figure blurred left and right, agile like a panther.
Leon's shots cracked through the air, bang, bang, bang, but not even a sleeve of the man's jacket was touched.
It was clear: unless he caught the cyborg off guard or struck from outside his line of sight, he couldn't land a kill shot. Just like earlier, when that single unexpected bullet to the chest had connected—only for Leon to realize that beneath the man's skin was nothing but machinery. A heartless body, a mechanical husk.
No wonder the bastard didn't go down.
The cyborg—Brixton—grinned when he realized he had survived. His enhanced systems exceeded even his own expectations. A moment ago he thought he was finished, yet here he stood, unscathed.
Leon's gun? Useless.
"Hahaha! You wanna kill me? Come on! Show me what you've got!" Brixton roared, arrogance flooding his tone.
Just one sliver of advantage, and already he was this cocky. Leon smirked to himself. Typical. Brains made of tofu—muscle first, common sense last.
If bullets won't work, then fists will.
Leon holstered the pistol, raised his hands, and beckoned with a taunt. He slid into a classic Chinese kung fu stance, fists steady, legs rooted.
Brixton caught the signal instantly. His cybernetic systems calculated response options in nanoseconds. Firearms were proving difficult to counter Leon with. Fine then—fists it was.
He cracked his neck, loosened his arms, and stepped forward with a fighter's confidence. His style? Sanda—Chinese kickboxing. A brutal, practical art that fit his straight-shooting, military personality. In America, Sanda had become especially popular among special ops.
Brixton lunged forward, closing distance in mere strides. His left leg snapped up, knee bent, heel driving downward toward Leon's head like an executioner's blade.
Leon caught it. Effortlessly. Both arms clamped around Brixton's leg like an iron vise.
Shock rippled across Brixton's face. With no hesitation, he launched himself off his other leg, whipping a savage kick toward Leon's chest. The blow carried enough force to shatter ribs, maybe more.
For an ordinary man, that would have been game over.
But Leon wasn't ordinary.
He calmly extended his right hand, catching Brixton's second leg mid-air.
Flimsy. Powerless.
"Damn it!" Brixton cursed in disbelief.
Leon's smirk widened. With both legs in hand, he spun, and with terrifying strength, smashed the cyborg into the ground.
Again.
And again.
Like a ragdoll. Like a sack of wet clay.
Each slam cracked the concrete floor, dust bursting upward in clouds. The whole repair shop shook under the force.
Then Leon grabbed Brixton by the head, lifted him like a hammer, and smashed his skull into the ground.
"This is for running your mouth." Smash.
"This is for acting tough." Smash.
"This is for thinking you could play god." Smash.
Each blow was punctuated with Leon's snarled insults. Every ounce of annoyance and rage poured out through his fists.
The synthetic skin on Brixton's face peeled away under the punishment, exposing gleaming silver cybernetic plating beneath. His so-called "enhancements" looked more like fragile toys in Leon's grip.
But Leon wasn't done.
He straddled the man's torso, fists flashing like raindrops in a storm, raining hundreds of punches into Brixton's skull. The ground cracked with each strike. Brixton's head sank deeper, pressed into the earth by sheer brute force.
Two hundred punches. Three hundred punches. The floor caved into a crater, and in the middle of it lay Brixton's head—buried like a corpse, face-down, unmoving.
The cybernetic enforcer who terrified governments and soldiers alike… silenced.
"Tch. Garbage. That's all you are." Leon spat, disgusted, and rose to his feet.
The entire elite unit was annihilated. Bodies littered the floor, blood pooled into rivers, and the smell of iron filled the air. Red streams trickled into the drains, painting the repair shop like a butcher's floor.
Terrified neighbors, hearing the chaos, cowered in their homes, praying not to become collateral damage.
But Leon stood calm, unshaken. His pulse hadn't even spiked.
He walked back to the Diomas Nilo and opened the door. Inside, Hattie Shaw and Elena sat frozen, mouths agape, eyes wide.
They had witnessed the whole massacre.
If they weren't sitting down, their knees would've given way.
Leon, a man they thought was just a driver—had just wiped out an Eteon elite squad single-handedly.
Hattie's voice cracked with disbelief:
"My God… that was Brixton. I fought him once. I couldn't even scratch him, couldn't even touch his clothes."
Only those who had crossed hands with Brixton understood his terror.
Hattie had always considered herself capable—ten soldiers at once was nothing. But against Brixton? She was a leaf in a storm, powerless. The man was like Superman, an unstoppable force of muscle, reflexes, and tech.
Yet Leon? Leon's fists outpaced bullets. His strength shattered steel. His speed overwhelmed Brixton's cybernetics.
Hattie shivered. The more she thought, the more terrifying it became. Fear mixed with awe, morphing into respect.
Elena too felt a wave of admiration rising inside her. Leon wasn't just strong—he was precise. His gunplay had been flawless, his heavy weapons overwhelming. That infinite-ammo machine gun he wielded? Even in America, the land of gun freedom, no ordinary force could get their hands on that.
Which meant Leon's background… was no ordinary one.
The mystery around him only deepened.
And as the two women stared at him, their hearts pounded. His brutal, decisive strength lit something inside them—a dangerous, thrilling desire.
The kind that whispered: This is a man who conquers.
~~----------------------
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