The target this time was a man who never dirtied his own hands.Senator Raul Desantos. Corrupt to the bone. Land seizures. Fake relief projects. Private militias. Over three thousand deaths on his ledger — all signed with a pen from the comfort of a leather chair.
I crouched on a rooftop across the hotel, watching the suite's lights through the night-vision scope. My comm earpiece crackled.
Artemis: "You really want to do this while he's… in the bathroom?"
Me: "That's the point. Nobody's ready to die with their pants down."
A small groan from her. "You've got a sick sense of humor."
"Hey," I murmured, "if you want poetic justice, you don't wait for him to finish reading the morning news."
Through the scope, I watched two bodyguards leave the suite's corridor. Perfect timing. I rose and moved — a silent [Blink] through the shadows and across the balcony until I was just outside the suite's vented bathroom window.
The distant flush of running water told me the senator was inside. I grinned beneath the mask.
Me: "Time to go plumbing."
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We breached together. Artemis slipped in from the main door, cutting off the corridor. I went straight for the bathroom.
The door wasn't even locked.
I could hear Desantos humming off-key, the sound bouncing off marble tiles. A newspaper rustled.
I raised a boot and kicked the door in. The panel slammed off its hinges and whipped across the small room, smacking the senator full in the face.
The poor man yelped — a high, panicked sound — and scrambled, but the cramped space left nowhere to run.
"Raul Desantos," I announced as I strode in, "you've just been flushed out."
Before he could recover, I lunged forward, caught a handful of his hair, and slammed his face down into the toilet bowl.
The porcelain gave a hollow THUNK; the cold water—and everything floating in it—splashed up around his cheeks as he gagged and flailed. He was a powerful man, but he was tangled in his own trousers, disoriented, and choking on his own indignity.
I hauled him up by the collar, letting him cough and sputter, his eyes wide and yellowed with shock, his breath smelling like sewage and expensive cigars.
Behind me, Artemis leaned on the doorframe, unimpressed.
"Seriously?" she said. "Out of all the ambush options, you picked this."
I shrugged. "Sometimes justice needs to be… hands-on."
Desantos thrashed weakly, his muffled protests bubbling in the water. I yanked him up again, his face wet and his eyes wide with shock.
"Got anything to say for yourself, Senator?" I asked almost conversationally.
"No? Not even a denial?"
I tilted my head. "Good. Means we can skip the speeches."
I shoved him down a fourth and final time, holding him for a moment longer until the frantic thrashing slowed to a weak flutter, a final moment of true terror. Then, I let go.
He dropped backward onto the tiled floor, coughing, retching, and gasping, his head cracking against the porcelain base. Raul Desantos was still wheezing, propped on one elbow, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his custom silk pajamas soaked. He looked less like a powerful senator and more like a cornered, pathetic animal whose life was about to end, not with the clean bang of a bullet, but with a degrading whimper.
I looked down at the shuddering mess and felt a sudden, familiar wave of boredom wash over me. The satisfaction was fleeting; the man was broken, the message delivered, and the adrenaline was already beginning its slow, disappointing fade. He wasn't worth the air he was polluting.
"Artemis," I muttered, my voice flat, already scanning the small room for anything we might have missed. "Let's make this quick. Lets get the next last target of elimination quickly tonight."
I pulled out a high-voltage tactical taser, the twin prongs gleaming under the vanity light. He saw it. His eyes, already dilated, flew open wider, reflecting the metal. He tried to scuttle backward, but there was nowhere to go.
"You took everything from those people with a pen stroke," I said, kneeling beside him. "You never dirty your hands. Consider this the down payment on your invoice."
I slammed the taser's wide contact plate directly against his groin.
The sound was a blinding, vicious CRACKLE. His howl was instant, high-pitched, and filled the room, utterly primal. His entire body arched in a violent, agonizing spasm, muscles locking, teeth grinding. I held the trigger for a full two seconds, watching the sheer, white-hot voltage rewrite the Senator's central nervous system. When I let go, he collapsed, twitching, a smell like burnt copper and something indescribably foul filling the air.
But the message needed to be permanent. I flipped the taser to its highest, most focused setting.
A quick, precise strike into his chest, right over the sternum.
ZZZZTT!
He didn't scream this time; he simply seized, his back slamming against the cool tile with a dull thud. His limbs shook uncontrollably—a rapid, involuntary dance—and then went completely slack. His face froze, a mask of pure, etched agony.
I stood up, holstering the taser. Raul Desantos lay there, motionless, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He was still alive, but his reign, his movement, and his capacity for power were gone. His nervous system was thoroughly, irrevocably ravaged. He was crippled.
"Target neutralized and permanently disabled," I reported. "Let's move, Arty. I hate the smell of wasted potential."
And just before I leave. I drop a belt of Flashbang near him.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
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The transition from the humid opulence of Desantos's hotel to the cold, antiseptic reality of Kassim al-Rami's bolthole was jarring. We were no longer hunting a peacock in a gilded cage; we were hunting a viper in its den.
Kassim's base of operations was a former Soviet-era intelligence monitoring station, carved into the granite spine of the mountain range that overlooked the city. It was a network of bleak, echoing tunnels and secure bunker rooms, sealed off from the world.
We moved through the ventilation shafts, the sound dampening of our gear absorbing every whisper of movement. The air was stale, smelling of machine oil, dust, and cheap disinfectant.
Artemis: "Security layers are thick. Thermal sensors, pressure plates, and four armed guards between us and the target room. He's taking no chances."
Me: "He's an artist of death. Artists are paranoid about their work being destroyed. Focus on the sensors. I only need a clean five seconds in that main corridor."
Kassim al-Rami: the architect of the Metroplex bombing two years ago, the blast that had killed hundreds. Desantos was vile, a cancer on society. Kassim was a pure infection, a fanatic who bathed in the glory of mass destruction. There would be no theatrics here. No humiliation. Only cold, precise finality.
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The warehouse was a fortress of corroded metal and shadows. Once we touched down, Artemis melted into the darkness, a ghost moving toward the outer walls. I went straight for the main conduit—a narrow, unsecured maintenance shaft leading toward the center of the complex where Rami's signal was strongest.
A moment later, I was dropping silently onto a catwalk overlooking the main floor. The air was thick with the smell of diesel and dust. Below me, five guards were positioned outside a fortified metal door—Rami's inner sanctum. They were exactly as advertised: disciplined, silent, and armed with assault rifles.
I took a breath and focused. The world blurred. I didn't move; I simply ceased to be here and instantly existed there.
[Blink]
The first guard, staring down the corridor, didn't even twitch before I was behind him. My movement was a fraction of a second, fueled by the Outsider's gift, making the resulting action a near-surgical strike. My hands shot out. A sharp, decisive twist to the base of the skull—a technique honed over years of necessity. The man instantly went slack, paralyzed from the neck down, collapsing soundlessly to the concrete floor, neutralized before his rifle could even drop.
The second guard was checking his comms. Before he could turn, I moved. Another soundless application of force, leaving him limp, his eyes wide and unseeing, his body instantly non-responsive.
I didn't slow. I didn't hesitate. I was a storm of focused, paralyzing violence. The third, a woman who sensed the disturbance and began to pivot, met my knee and then my hand. Her neck snapped into complete, paralyzing stillness. The fourth and fifth, reacting a moment too late, found the same brutal, swift fate. Five bodyguards, neutralized and crippled from the neck down in less than Ten seconds.
I checked my comms. "Five down. Path to the target is clear. What about you, Artemis?"
Artemis: "Already finish taking down the enemy terrorist. Just finish up the The Target."
"Noted"
I kicked open the reinforced steel door. It slammed inward, echoing in the confined space.
The room inside was simple: a folding table, a few scattered maps, and a single, polished antique chair where Kassim al-Rami sat, calmly reading a ledger. He was thinner than his wanted posters suggested, with deep-set eyes and the chilling, self-assured calmness of a true zealot.
He didn't jump. He merely looked up, a faint, almost pitying smile curving his lips.
"I expected a bullet," Kassim said, his voice surprisingly soft. "I didn't expect... you.The Black Ripper ."
I raised a brow behind my mask. The name was old, a shadow from my pre-League days when I was just a ghost in the criminal underworld. A different life. Before Diana put a leash "Someone took their time learning about me," I noted, a slight, humorless chuckle escaping my throat. "Well, since you already know me, you already know what will happen. Heh-heh."
Kassim started to rise, his hand moving subtly toward the edge of the table. "I al—"
I didn't let him finish. I activated [Blink].
I was across the table before his voice could form. I seized him by the throat and the front of his vest, hauling him off his feet. He wasn't allowed the dignity of a final word, or even a struggle.
I wanted him to understand the futility of his physical defiance. With a single, brutal heave, I slammed him into the nearest concrete wall. The impact shook the small room, knocking the wind from his lungs and instantly stealing the smug, zealot look from his face. He slumped, dazed, coughing wetly.
I dragged him back immediately, forced him face-down onto the wooden table, and flattened his hand onto the splintered surface. With a practiced, seamless motion, I drew the short, razor-sharp blade from its concealed sheath in my wrist guard.
I drove the blade clean through the center of his palm, pinning his hand to the wooden table with sickening, absolute finality.
Kassim's scream was a raw, desperate thing, but I clamped my hand over his mouth instantly, cutting the sound short. His eyes, now wide and swimming with actual, blinding fear, stared up at me. Blood pooled quickly around the hilt of the blade, staining the ledger.
"You orchestrated mass murder from behind a desk," I spat, my voice a low, furious hiss. "You are a coward who hides behind religion and mercenaries. You deserve a thousand deaths, but tonight, you get only one. And it will be unique."
I released his mouth, knowing the pain would prevent any coherent sound. I took a step back, the symbol on my hand—the mark of the Outsider—tingling with raw, unleashed power. The room darkened slightly, the shadows deeping unnaturally.
I raised my hand toward the pinned terrorist, focusing the blinding, ecstatic power that surged through my veins. The power of the Void.
"The Metroplex victims scream for vengeance, Rami. Let them have it."
I unleashed the Outsider's power.
[Devouring Swarm]
The change was instantaneous and horrific. The air cracked with energy. From the shadows, from the dust motes, from the very air around us, a tide of pure, black energy materialized and coalesced into a dense, seething, overwhelming torrent of bloodflies.
Not normal flies—these were the plague made manifest, thousands of them, drawn from the darkest corner of the Void. They were ravenous, their wings a furious, droning cloud, their bodies clicking with deadly speed. They did not attack me; they surged straight for their appointed target, sensing the unique corruption in his soul.
Kassim al-Rami screamed—a desperate, high-pitched noise of pure agony and terror. He thrashed against the table, trying desperately to pull his pinned hand free, but the blade held fast. The swarm enveloped him in a sickening, dark cloak, buzzing with relentless, consuming power.
The flies attacked his exposed skin, his eyes, his mouth—a living, black punishment that bit, clawed, and consumed. Rami's struggles became desperate, his screams muffled by the horrific drone of the swarm. He was being devoured alive by shadow and pestilence, his ultimate, agonizing reckoning delivered not by a bullet, but by the very darkness he had spread.
I focused my will, and with a minimal, effortless flick of my index finger, the overwhelming power of the [Devouring Swarm] was instantly recalled.
The furious, agonizing drone of the bloodflies cut out. The oppressive cloud of black energy snapped back into the Void, leaving behind the sudden, dead silence of the ruined room.
Kassim al-Rami lay flat on the table, pinned by the blade through his hand, motionless save for the shuddering of his chest. The silence was immediately shattered by his choked, rattling sobs.
The effects of the Swarm were devastating, surgical, and utterly horrific. His face was a mask of ruined flesh. The plague-manifested insects had consumed every unprotected layer of his skin. Blood seeped from a thousand tiny puncture wounds, painting his jawline and neck a sticky crimson.
I stepped closer, studying the handiwork.
His eyes, wide open beneath swollen, raw lids, were tracking my movements with the frantic, helpless desperation of a trapped animal. Tiny capillaries had burst around the white of his eyes, leaving them streaked with red. He was staring, but he wasn't seeing; the trauma had overloaded his sensory system.
His ears were the worst. The insects, drawn to the moisture and warmth, had burrowed into the outer canals, and now a thick, dark fluid—a mix of wax, blood, and plasma—was oozing down his temples. He was likely deafened by the internal damage and the sheer noise of the Swarm.
I reached out and pulled the blood-soaked ledger from beneath his face, revealing the full extent of his body's trauma. The exposed skin of his neck and the back of his hands was covered in angry, blistered, weeping scars—the tracks of the Devouring Swarm's brief, ravenous feast. His expensive clothing, torn and saturated with sweat and blood, offered little protection.
He was in profound shock. The neurological assault combined with the raw physical agony of the blade pinning his hand had rendered him completely incapacitated.
"Look at you, Rami," I murmured, my voice colder than the concrete floor. "A masterpiece of your own making. You used fire and darkness to destroy the innocent. I simply returned your offering."
He tried to whisper, perhaps a curse or a plea, but only a wet, gurgling sound escaped his ruined throat. His eyes rolled, then fixed on the ceiling, paralyzed by pain and fear.
Crippled. Permanently disfigured, deafened, and psychologically shattered. He was a perfect asset for interrogation and a terrifying example for the rest of his organization.
.