A Tyrant In Dc

Allen stood in the center of the container yard, his breath visible in the cold night air. The rows of containers stretched endlessly, each one a potential hiding place for horrors he didn't want to imagine. The quest marker blinked in the corner of his vision, taunting him with its cold, unfeeling reminder: Objective: Clear the Bloodfang Warehouse – 8/12 Targets Neutralized.

"Figures," Allen muttered, his voice low, as his eyes scanned the area. "Of course, this place is crawling with more scum."

Each step deeper into the maze of rusted metal brought a new wave of anger. The muffled cries and whispers from within some of the containers only stoked the fire in his chest. These weren't just storage boxes; they were prisons. The sheer scale of it made his fists clench tighter around the Raven 45. The thought of what these people had endured made his stomach churn.

"This is wrong," he growled under his breath, his voice echoing in the stillness. "So damn wrong."

The urge to kill every last one of them surged through him, primal and undeniable. But just as he was about to move, the system chimed in his head:

[New Directive: Leave them here. Only take the strong ones.]

Allen froze, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell?" he whispered, the disgust in his voice palpable. Two hidden rewards flickered in his peripheral vision, teasing him with their mystery.

Leave them here? His jaw tightened. The system's logic was beyond him, but this? This felt...inhuman. He shook his head, his voice a harsh whisper. "Screw the rewards."

A faint voice cut through his thoughts. "Is...is somebody there?" The tone was weak, pained, and desperate.

Allen turned toward the source, spotting a boy peering out from a crack in one of the containers. His face was dirty, his eyes hollow. Behind him, a woman—likely his mother—and an older man, possibly his father, clung to each other, their expressions etched with fear and hope.

Allen approached, his movements slow and deliberate. "I'm here," he said, his voice steady despite the storm brewing inside him. "I'm going to get you out."

The boy's eyes lit up, and whispers of relief spread among the other captives. Praise and gratitude poured out, the cacophony of voices lifting Allen's spirits for a brief moment.

He allowed himself a small smirk, feeling a rare swell of pride. "Alright, everyone. Hang tight. I'll—"

The creak of a heavy door swinging open cut him off. Allen whipped around, his Raven 45 drawn and ready. A tall man stepped into the space, his silhouette backlit by the dim warehouse lights. His cold, calm, and collected demeanor sent a chill down Allen's spine.

"Who's here, causing a ruckus in my house?" the man said, his voice smooth and calculated. Behind him, a group of armed goons spilled into the space, their weapons gleaming under the faint light.

Before Allen could react, the system blared in his mind: [Danger Detected. Danger Detected.]

Allen's eyes widened. He hadn't even noticed them coming. His pulse quickened as he assessed the situation. These weren't the average junkies he'd dealt with earlier. These guys were trained, disciplined, and heavily armed.

"Well, this is just perfect," Allen muttered, his grip tightening on his pistol. He ran through his options, his mind racing. Head-on confrontation? He'd be shredded in seconds. Sneak attack? Too many eyes. His best bet? A tactical retreat.

"Get him!" the leader barked, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade.

The goons fanned out, some raising their weapons, others circling to cut off his escape. Allen fired off two quick shots, dropping one of them instantly.

[+7 EXP. Total: 619/1000.]

But the others were fast, their return fire forcing him to dive for cover behind a container. Bullets ricocheted off the metal walls, the deafening sound echoing through the yard.

"Gotta move," Allen hissed, rolling to his feet. He bolted toward the nearest exit, weaving through the containers as gunfire followed him. His breath came in ragged bursts, adrenaline surging through his veins.

The sound of engines roaring to life stopped him cold. He glanced over his shoulder and cursed under his breath. The goons were piling into vehicles—dirt bikes, trucks, and even an old sedan—giving chase.

"Really?!" Allen shouted, his voice dripping with exasperation. He sprinted toward the fence at the edge of the yard, his boots pounding against the ground. One of the bikers sped toward him, a crowbar raised high. Allen ducked at the last second, the weapon whistling past his head. He retaliated with a quick shot, the biker tumbling off his ride as the bike skidded into a stack of crates.

[+10 EXP. Total: 629/1000.]

The sedan screeched around a corner, its headlights cutting through the darkness. Allen jumped onto a container, scrambling to higher ground as the car barreled toward him. From his vantage point, he fired two shots into the windshield, forcing the driver to swerve and crash into a pile of debris.

[+5 EXP. Total: 634/1000.]

The chase continued, the remaining vehicles circling like vultures. Allen leaped from container to container, his mind racing for a plan. He needed to lose them—and fast.

Spotting a gap in the fence, he made a beeline for it, dodging gunfire and weaving through obstacles. He slipped through the opening just as the trucks skidded to a halt, their drivers shouting curses into the night.

Allen didn't stop running until he was deep into the shadows of Gotham's backstreets. His chest heaved, his body aching, but he couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at his lips.

"Well, that was a mess," he muttered, glancing back at the faint glow of the warehouse in the distance. "But it's not over yet."

To Be Continued...