He paused, realizing the vibration was coming from Vance.

’Special Category.’

There was no doubt about it.

After acquiring the innate skill Vibration Sense, he had learned to distinguish humans by the rhythm of their heartbeat.

Normal ones gave off a faint, subtle pulse—barely noticeable unless he focused.

But those with Gamma DNA were different. Their heartbeat carried weight and intensity.

And the feeling he got from the man before him was not weak at all. It wasn’t ordinary at all. It was strong—controlled, and powerful.

He came here expecting nothing more than messy leftovers, but who would have thought he walked straight into a gold mine.

In an instant, he changed his plans. He didn’t mind pretending to be cooperative, because results mattered more.

"Alright, I’ll work."

Vance smiled and leaned back.

"You made the right call. For a second there, I thought you planned to resist—and I would be forced to teach you a lesson."

He spoke casually, but it wasn’t arrogance—just pure confidence in himself.

"Show your worth, and one day you’ll leave here with enough money to change your life."

’Bullshit.’

They were exploiting men with nowhere to go as cheap labor.

No wonder all he saw back in town were older homeless people.

That said, Vance being a Special Category explained his control over the group. He was either ex-Defense Force or a Gamma user using his power for personal gain.

It made sense. Not everyone with that DNA would choose to hunt monsters and risk their lives. The Defense Force paid well, but there were easier ways to earn.

He wouldn’t even be surprised if the city’s major criminal organizations all employed Special Categories. If they had the money, why wouldn’t they use people with literal superpowers?

Still lost in thought, he was interrupted as Vance ordered his lackey to escort him to the worker quarters.

It was a large compound containing around fifty workers—mostly young, with a few men under fifty.

"Listen up. From now on, you don’t leave this compound without permission—and whatever you see here stays here. You understand me?" one of the bikers warned.

"Yeah, I understand."

"Good. What’s your name, by the way?"

"Frank."

After the brief introduction, Francis was led into a room he would be sharing with six other people.

It looked decent —basic, and it was more than enough for him to rest until his energy recovered.

By evening, he could proceed with his plan—kill Vance and the rest of the crew, retrieve his spear, and head straight to the central area.

But before he could even take a breath, another biker member arrived.

Without a word of greeting, he was handed a plain uniform.

White shirt. Black pants. Both clean, though worn thin from too many washes.

’So much for resting.’

He changed without complaint, folding the leather jacket before handing it back.

The biker led him to another area. From the outside, it looked like a barn—but the moment he stepped in, his expression darkened immediately

Barrels of chemicals were stacked along the walls, some sealed, others left half-open, their contents giving off sharp, stinging fumes.

He could barely contain his anger. He hated criminals in general, but those involved in illegal substances held a special place in his twisted sense of justice.

"Is this a drug laboratory?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Of course it is," the biker laughed. "Go ahead, try escaping or reporting it. The law enforcers are ours."

Francis took another breath, exhaling slowly. The urge to go on a killing spree was overwhelming his reason, but he forced it down.

’It’s not the right time yet.’ he repeated in his mind,

The biker pushed the door open and led him down concrete steps.

Below, the smell hit first—dense, chemical-heavy, soaked into the walls from years of use.

Acetone lingered underneath everything

The smell alone dragged him back to his vigilante days—raiding places like this, shooting people in the head, and leaving nothing behind but burned corpses.

A minute later, they reached the main production floor. It was huge.

This wasn’t small-scale anymore. It was industrial.

The ceiling was low, but the space stretched far wider than the building above suggested.

Someone had expanded it deliberately, reinforcing the underground structure with newer concrete.

Ventilation ducts ran across the ceiling, pulling contaminated air through filters.

Workers moved between stations—around forty of them, all in cheap hazmat suits. Thin plastic layers. Basic protection at best.

For what was being processed in this room, they were barely adequate.

Francis watched a man across the room adjust a valve on a pressurized line.

His suit had a small tear near the left shoulder, patched with tape that had already started to peel at one corner.

He had seen the outcome of that kind of exposure. By the time the symptoms became undeniable, the damage was already beyond the point of reversal.

"Don’t stop moving. Your job is at the back,"

He was directed past the main production floor, which confirmed what he had already suspected.

They wouldn’t put a new arrival directly into the processing stations. Too many ways for an untrained hand to cause an expensive problem, or a fatal one.

Soon, he reached the loading area.

It was simpler than the production floor.

No active chemical processing, no open containers. Just a wide flat space with a freight elevator on one end, a set of manual pulleys on the other, and rows of sealed containers.

A foreman type stood near a clipboard mounted on the wall. He looked up when Francis entered.

"Is this the new guy? Did you make sure no one’s looking for him?" the foreman asked.

"Don’t worry, Devin said he’s good—it checks out," the biker replied.

Francis’s ears caught the name immediately.

’Devin...’

The homeless old man.

Everything finally made sense. Those people weren’t just beggars. They were part of the syndicate’s intelligence network.

He kept wondering why he was specifically targeted—but it was all part of their script.

’I’ll deal with him later,’ he thought coldly.

’And to think I almost believed some humans still deserved to live.’