"You bastard!" he roared, voice thick with rage and blood, eyes blazing with the wild fury of a cornered beast.

The warehouse exploded into chaos, a storm of violence that turned the air electric. Gunshots cracked like a fireworks finale, bam bam bam bullets slicing through the humid gloom from the five remaining men, their rifles barking as they snapped into action, boots scuffing the cracked concrete.

The broad man lunged first, his combat knife flashing like a silver fang under the flickering fluorescents, aiming for Devon's side with a snarl that promised death.

But Devon was already moving, adrenaline flooding his veins, his senses sharpened to a predator's edge. He yanked the tall man's staggering form in front of him like a shield, the man's body jerking as bullets slammed into his chest and back, blood splattering warm across Devon's face, the coppery stench mingling with the warehouse's damp reek of oil, mold, and rusted metal.

The tall man gasped, a wet, choking rattle, his weight sagging like a sack of grain, but Devon held him up, muscles straining, using the dying bulk to block the hail of lead. Sparks flew as stray shots pinged off rusted pipes, the fluorescent lights buzzing louder, chains swaying above like ghostly nooses dancing in the dark.

Devon's free hand darted to the floor, snatching the fallen pistol, fingers slick with blood but steady as forged steel. He fired blind from behind the human shield, bam bam, his shots finding one man's knee, the guy screaming as his leg buckled, rifle clattering to the ground with a hollow clang that echoed like a funeral bell.

The broad man recovered, his knife raised high for a killing blow, his face twisted in a mask of fury. "You're dead, doc!" he bellowed, charging like a runaway freight train, boots pounding the concrete.

Devon shoved the tall man's corpse forward, the dead weight slamming into the broad man, knocking him off balance with a grunt, the body hitting the floor with a wet thud that reverberated like a drum in a cave.

Devon dove to the side, rolling behind a stack of splintered crates as bullets chewed through the wood, splinters flying like jagged shrapnel, one grazing his cheek with a hot sting. Blood trickled, but his regenerative ability surged, a warm tingle knitting the skin shut in seconds, the pain fading to a faint itch.

The warehouse was a labyrinth of deca, —towering crates with rusted machinery hulking in the shadows, and long, jagged pools of darkness that seemed to swallow the light. The air was thick with gunpowder, sweat, and the sour stink of fear, the kind that clung to men who knew they were losing control.

Devon's eyes flicked across the chaos, spotting a leaking pipe overhead, water dripping into a slick puddle mixed with spilled oil, gleaming like a black mirror under the buzzing lights. He aimed the pistol—bam. and shot the pipe, metal bursting with a hiss, spraying water and oil across the floor, turning it into a greasy trap.

One man charged, his boots slipping on the slick concrete, arms flailing as he went down hard, cursing in a language Devon didn't catch. Devon popped up, firing bam bam, two shots to the chest, the man's body jerking like a puppet with cut strings before going still, blood pooling dark and glossy. One down.

The others shouted, their voices raw with panic and rage, a desperate edge creeping in. "Kill him! Cut him off!" one yelled, his voice cracking as two men circled left, another darting right, their shadows stretching long and menacing, like wolves hunting under a dying moon.

Devon moved like a phantom, his regenerative body shrugging off bruises and cuts, each one healing fast, his blood humming with unnatural vitality. He grabbed a loose chain dangling from the ceiling, yanking it hard—the links rattled like an angry rattlesnake, swinging in a wide, vicious arc. He whipped it forward, the chain cracking against one man's rifle, knocking it from his hands with a metallic clang that rang like a gong.

The man cursed, scrabbling for his pistol, his fingers fumbling in panic, but Devon was faster bam, a shot through the throat, blood spraying in a crimson arc as the man collapsed, gurgling, his eyes wide with shock. Two. The chain swung back, and Devon caught it, using its momentum to vault onto a crate, his boots thudding on the wood, the stack wobbling precariously under his weight.

Bullets whizzed past, one grazing his thigh, the pain sharp and hot, but his body healed in a flash, the wound closing like it was never there. From the higher vantage, he fired dow, catching another man in the shoulder, spinning him into a crate with a crash, his rifle firing wild into the ceiling, sparks raining as a light bulb popped with a sharp crack, plunging half the warehouse into deeper shadow, the air thick with dust and the electric tang of ozone.

The broad man was back on his feet, blood dripping from his temple, his knife gleaming like a shard of moonlight, his roar shaking the air like a beast unchained. "You're not walking out, doc!" he snarled, charging up a stack of crates, his bulk making the wood groan and splinter, shards flying like confetti.

Devon dove off his perch, landing hard, the impact jarring his ribs, but his regeneration smoothed the pain away, bones knitting as he rolled under a rusted conveyor belt. Bullets pinged off the metal above him, sparks lighting the dark like fireflies, the air heavy with the acrid bite of gunpowder.

He spotted a heavy wrench on the floor, its handle coated in grime, and snatched it, hurling it like a missile. It spun through the air, cracking the broad man's knee with a sickening crunch that echoed like a snapped branch. The man howled, stumbling, his knife slashing wildly as he fought to stay upright. Devon sprang up, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

He grabbed the man's knife arm, twisting hard, bones snapped like dry twigs, the blade clattering free with a metallic ring. Devon drove his knee into the man's gut, the air whooshing out like a bellows, then slammed the pistol butt into his skull crack, the broad man dropping like a felled oak, blood pooling dark beneath him, his knife skidding into the shadows.

The last two men regrouped, their breaths ragged, eyes wide with fear under the buzzing lights, their bravado crumbling like cheap plaster. "He's just one guy!" one shouted, his voice cracking, but the tremble in his hands betrayed his panic, his rifle shaking as he fired wildly, bullets tearing through crates, wood exploding around Devon like a storm.

He ducked behind a forklift, its rusted frame pinging with impacts, sparks flying like a welder's torch, the metal groaning under the assault.

A bullet clipped his shoulder, blood spraying hot, but the wound sealed in seconds, his regeneration a warm pulse under his skin, keeping him sharp, unstoppable. He scanned the warehouse, spotting a loose power cable dangling from a broken panel, its end frayed and spitting blue sparks like an angry snake.

Got you. He yanked it free with a snap, the live wire buzzing in his hand, and tossed it into the oily puddle where one man stood, still firing. The cable hit with a crackle, electricity arcing wild, the man screaming as his body jerked like a marionette on fire, smoke curling from his blackened gear, the stench of burned flesh sharp in the air. He collapsed, twitching, his rifle clattering uselessly.

The last man backed toward a side door, his rifle shaking as he fired, bullets grazing Devon's side, the pain flaring sharp then fading as his body healed, skin knitting like magic. Devon advanced, his face a blank mask, no remorse, just the cold, relentless drive to finish it. The man tripped over a crate, his shots going wild, one bullet sparking off a chain above, the links clanging like a death knell.

Devon fired—bam, the shot catching the man's leg, sending him to his knees with a scream, his rifle skidding across the concrete. Devon closed in, kicking the weapon into the dark, the metal screeching as it vanished. He pressed the pistol to the man's forehead, the barrel cold against sweat-slick skin, his voice low and hard as iron. "Who sent you? Where are they?"

The man spat blood, his eyes burning with defiance but his voice trembling, cracked by fear and pain. The man laughed, a weak, bitter rasp that grated like gravel. "Go to hell" Bam. The headshot cut him off, the bullet punching through his skull, his body slumping to the floor, blood pooling dark under the flickering lights, a crimson mirror reflecting the carnage.

The warehouse fell silent, a graveyard of echoes—the drip of water from the burst pipe, the fading buzz of the lights, the faint clink of chains swaying like ghosts. Devon stood, his body healing the last grazes, the warmth of regeneration fading as his skin became flawless again.

He knelt beside the last man's body, rifling through his gear, snatching a radio that crackled with static, distant voices murmuring, reinforcements, maybe, or orders from the person he was talking to. He grabbed a duffel from the weapons table, stuffing it with extra ammo, a grenade, and the broad man's knife, its blade still slick with blood.

His eyes caught a crumpled note tucked in the man's vest, scrawled with "17 Rue des Ombres" and a crude map of Geneva's outskirts. He stuffed it into his jacket, his hands steady despite the blood drying on them.

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