Ethan Cole woke up to the most beautiful chaos.
Left side: Isabella, his yandere stepsister, curled naked against him, pussy still dripping last night's load, clit swollen and glistening with his saliva, perfect breasts covered in fresh bite marks.
Right side: Valentina, his pregnant stepmom, in the exact same state: leaking cum, hickeys everywhere, one hand still resting possessively on his abs even in deep sleep.
The bed looked like a war zone of love.
He grinned, kissed both their foreheads, and slipped out without waking them.
Quick shower, fresh clothes: black hoodie, ripped jeans, sneakers.
Down to the garage.
His matte-black Kawasaki Ninja H2R waited like a sleeping dragon.
One kick of the starter and the supercharged engine ROARED to life, a deep, animal growl that rattled the windows.
He snapped on his helmet, revved once just to feel the vibration between his legs, then launched out of the driveway.
0 to 180 km/h in three seconds.
Wind screamed past.
City streets blurred.
Cars became standing still.
He leaned into every corner like he was carving his name into the asphalt, popping wheelies between red lights, pure flex.
Phone on handlebar mount buzzed:
Isabella: "husband where are youuuuu"
Valentina: "baby come back mommy's craving round 4"
Ms. Evelyn: "hubby I'm in the university parking lot… wearing the set you like ♡"
Ethan smirked under the helmet, twisted the throttle harder.
Life at 300 km/h felt exactly right.
Let the women wait a little.
A king should arrive fashionably late…
and covered in adrenaline.
Ethan killed the engine in the mall's VIP parking, helmet under his arm, adrenaline still buzzing.
Crowds parted without realizing why (something about the way he walked screamed "don't fuck with me").
Inside the biggest, flashiest supermarket on the top floor, he walked past endless aisles of luxury goods like he owned the place.
At the very back, between the imported wines and the truffle section, he pressed his palm against a nondescript freezer door.
Biometric scan.
Retina.
Eight-digit code plus voice print.
The "freezer" slid open, revealing a private elevator plated in matte black.
Doors closed.
Descent began: fast, silent, deep.
Ten minutes of stomach-dropping freefall.
Ding.
Doors opened into a world that shouldn't exist beneath a shopping mall.
Underground fortress: miles of polished obsidian corridors, holographic displays, agents in black tactical gear rushing past with tablets and suppressed rifles.
No one looked twice at Ethan.
Here, he wasn't just the cocky university kid with a superhero bike.
He was legacy.
He walked straight to the central lounge: circular pit of black leather couches, 8K wall screen, Dolby Atmos so crisp you could hear a heartbeat across the room.
Dozens of off-duty operatives lounged, eyes glued to the breaking news.
Anchor's voice boomed:
The lounge was dead silent except for the news anchor's frantic voice.
**"Breaking: 1,000 orphan children taken hostage in the abandoned Skyline Academy building.
Terror cell 'Crimson Dawn' demands immediate release of their leader, currently serving nine life sentences.
SWAT teams on standby. No negotiations."**
Live drone footage showed the building surrounded, snipers on rooftops, crying kids visible through broken windows.
Every agent in the base snapped into overdrive: weapons check, comms live, choppers spooling up.
In the middle of it all, Ethan sat cross-legged on the leather couch.
Knuckles white.
Knuckles turning from pressure.
Eyes glowing blood-red, like twin gates to the ninth hell.
Calm.
Perfectly, terrifyingly calm.
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
A veteran operative walked past, saw those eyes, and instinctively took three steps back.
The Chief, Director Selena Varkis, 38, silver-streaked black hair, curves that filled her tactical suit like it was painted on, strode in barking orders.
Then she spotted Ethan.
Stopped dead.
"Cole," she said, voice low. "Briefing room. Now."
Ethan didn't move.
His voice came out flat, cold enough to frost glass.
"Those kids are under my protection.
I funded that orphanage.
Every. Single. One."
Selena's eyes widened. She knew better than to argue when his voice sounded like that.
The entire lounge held its breath.
Ethan stood slowly.
Red eyes still burning.
"Give me a team of five.
I'm going in alone if I have to."
Selena hesitated for half a second.
Then nodded.
"Gear up. You're lead."
Ethan walked past her toward the armory, every agent parting like the Red Sea.
On the screen behind him, a little girl's terrified face filled the feed.
Ethan's reflection in the glass showed pure demon.
The playboy was gone.
The monster had woken up.
Selena's comms pinged right as Ethan reached the armory door.
She read the encrypted message once.
Then again.
Her face hardened.
"Stand down, Cole."
Ethan froze mid-step, red eyes narrowing to slits.
"What?"
"New orders from the Council. Primary target (terror cell leader) must be taken alive for interrogation. Lethal force on him is forbidden."
The temperature around Ethan plummeted.
Frost crawled across the metal floor in spiderwebs from his boots.
Every agent in a ten-meter radius suddenly found urgent business elsewhere.
Ethan's voice came out low, lethal.
"Those kids are dying in there.
And you want me to play nice with the bastard who took them?"
Selena met his stare without flinching.
"Classified. I'm sending Alpha-Black squad instead. Best non-lethal operators we have. They'll extract the children and secure the leader alive."
Ethan's knuckles cracked, ice spreading further.
For a second it looked like he might put Selena through a wall.
Then he exhaled, slow and controlled.
The frost stopped spreading.
"Fine."
He turned, walked back to the central couch, and sat down like a king forced to watch peasants do his job.
The air around him stayed arctic.
Selena barked orders.
Alpha-Black geared up in seconds: stun rounds, neural restraints, gas canisters.
They boarded the VTOL in under two minutes.
Ethan never moved from the couch.
Just stared at the live feed, red eyes unblinking, fists clenched so hard the leather armrests started to tear.
On screen, the team breached.
Gunfire.
Screams.
Children crying.
The operation was smooth… but fate is a bitch.
One hundred children dead.
Live footage of their small bodies being carried out played on every screen, every phone, every social media platform.
Public outrage exploded like wildfire.
Inside the top-secret underground base, dead silence.
Ethan Cole sat on the leather sofa, cross-legged, hands resting calmly on his knees.
He didn't move an inch.
His eyes were blood-red, like a demon from the ninth hell, but his face stayed perfectly calm, like the surface of a frozen lake.
In the maximum-security prison, the terrorist leader saw the news and laughed like a madman, tears streaming down his face.
The Council was drowning under pressure from media and public fury.
Ethan just watched.
Calm.
Waiting.
Council Hall – Top floor, Capital Tower
Dead silence.
Ten of the most powerful people in the nation sat around the obsidian table, faces pale, watching the news loop of tiny body bags.
Then,
BOOM.
A solid mahogany chair smashed straight through the 80-inch screen in a shower of sparks and glass.
Everyone jumped.
Standing in front of the destroyed display was City Leader Seraphina Frostvale,
the untouchable ice-goddess MILF who ruled half the continent with a single glance.
Forty years old, silver hair cascading like moonlight, curves that made the tailored white suit look painted on, massive breasts straining every button, hips and ass that turned heads in every room she entered.
Stockings so sheer they looked illegal.
She rubbed her temples, let out a long, exhausted sigh that somehow still sounded regal.
One of the generals found his voice.
"Madam… what now?"
Seraphina's ice-blue eyes narrowed.
"Send every nearby supernatural asset we have."
The general hesitated. "And the orders?"
She turned, voice flat, cold, final.
"Kill. Every. Single. One of those bastards.
Leave the leader breathing, barely.
I want him to feel it."
The room temperature dropped ten degrees.
She snapped her fingers.
Her secretary, another jaw-dropping MILF in a tight pencil skirt, black stockings, and glasses, heels clicking like gunshots, stepped forward.
"Yes, Madam?"
"Prepare the press conference.
I'm explaining exactly why Crimson Dawn no longer exists by sunrise."
The secretary bowed, breasts nearly spilling out of her blouse.
"At once, Madam."
Seraphina turned back to the shattered screen, the reflection of her perfect, furious face glowing in the broken glass.
Outside, the city sky darkened as black-ops VTOLs launched by the dozen.
The goddess had spoken.
Mercy was officially cancelled.