BANG. BANG. BANG.

Three more followed immediately, none of them aimed, all of them fired by men who heard the first shot and pulled their triggers out of pure terror.

Francis was already moving between them. He kept low and ran in short bursts.

Every muzzle flash told him where the next pair of hands was. Every shot that missed told him the angle of the shooter.

He swung his weapon.

A man raised his arm to block, but it was ripped apart on impact. What remained slipped from his control as he stumbled back into two others.

Francis stepped through the gap, driving the rusted pipe straight into the next man’s sternum. Bone cracked with a wet snap, and a gout of dark blood erupted from the the victim’s mouth.

His face twisted, not in defiance, but in the slack-jawed shock of a person about to cry. That pathetic, fragile expression made Francis mood better.

With a yank, he tore the pipe free, leaving the biker to collapse around the gushing wound.

The others saw it and opened fire. Their composure broke fast after seeing such a gruesome way of killing.

However, they were too close to each other. In the panic, their aim turned sloppy, and bullets tore into their own group.

"STOP SHOOTING—YOU’LL HIT EACH OTHER—AND THE BIKE TANKS!"

Too late.

One man grabbed his side and went down.

Francis kicked a fallen handgun off the ground, caught it midair, and shot out the compound’s exterior lights in quick succession.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

Darkness swallowed the lot, giving him enough time to take them out without revealing too much of his abilities.

More people rushed out, all funneling through the same door.

’Thanks for making it easier for me.’

He gripped the rusted pipe for a second, then hurled it.

The shot tore through the air and punched through six people, pinning their bodies together like skewered meat.

Without slowing down, Francis stepped over the collapsing bodies and moved toward the doorway.

He began striking the nearest enemy, leaving him fatally injured but not killing him outright. He wanted them to stay conscious long enough to feel every second of regret.

BANG!

A man fired a pistol at point-blank range behind Francis’ back. Francis reacted instantly, ducking just in time, then drove his elbow backward. The impact crushed the opponent’s lungs.

In the next moment, he jumped onto the pool table and grabbed the balls scattered across its surface.

His eyes moved left and right like a machine. He read their movements before they happened.

Then he started throwing the balls one after another, each one hitting with the force of a cannonball.

Soon, he ran out of things to throw, so he ripped the wooden pool cue from the table.

The cue became a spear in his hands. He drove it forward and punched it through a biker’s shoulder.

Then he snapped it in half and hurled the other piece at an escaping biker, striking clean through his throat.

’Yeah... it’s easier to just go wild from time to time,’ he thought as he looked over the pile of bodies around him.

Most of them were barely alive, and that made Francis’ lips curl into a twisted smile. It was the same expression he used to wear when torturing criminals.

"W... Why are you doing this?" a bald man with tattoos groaned in pain.

Francis ignored the question. "Where is your leader?"

"Ptui!" The bald man spat a glob of bloody phlegm onto the floor. "Fuck off. I won’t tell you shit."

"That’s your choice. I won’t force you." He turned away and scanned the floor, where another man lay crying in pain.

Francis reached down, sinking his fingers into the biker’s greasy hair, and dragged him across the floor.

"ARGGH" He screamed, his broken leg scraping and bouncing against the floor, leaving a smear of blood.

"See?" Francis turned to the bald man. "I won’t force you to talk if you don’t want to, but..."

With one hand gripping the biker’s hair, he placed his other palm firmly on the top of the skull.

Francis began to press. Slowly.

The pressure was immense, a grinding, crushing force. There was a sound like a walnut cracking, then another, louder one.

The victim’s eyes, bulging from their sockets, seemed to vibrate for a moment before they popped like ripe grapes.

Thick, dark blood began to ooze from the ears, followed by a pinkish-grey slurry of brain matter that leaked from the nostrils.

The bald man pinned to the bar could only stare, his own pain forgotten, as the warm rain of blood, and brain matter splattered across his face and chest.

A single, perfect eyeball slid down his cheek and hung there, staring back at him.

"Now," Francis let the corpse slump to the floor. "I’ll ask again. Nice and easy. Where is your leader?"

"Okay! Okay, I’ll talk! I’ll talk!" he shrieked, the words tumbling out of him.

"Just please... don’t... don’t do that to me. I’ll tell you everything! Vance! He’s not here! He’s in the lab, in the drug facility! There’s an underground room, that’s where he is!"

The bald man’s eyes darted around frantically, afraid of a worse fate, so he quickly started giving more information.

"He’s down there because... because he’s meeting with them. The...The Dark Chain. Some of their members are here. They’re finalizing a deal. That’s all I know, I swear! That’s all I know! Please..."

Francis’s eyes glinted.

’Dark Chain.’

It seemed he would be taking more than just one high-quality liver tonight.

"Good," Francis nodded in satisfaction before turning away.

"Thank god." A wave of relief washed over the bald man.

He sagged against the wall, a sob of pure gratitude escaping his lips. He had done it. He had bought his life—

The world tilted suddenly, and he saw himself from above—his own headless body lying below at an impossible angle.

"That’s my reward for your cooperation,"