A Tyrant In Dc

The door creaked as Allen pushed it open, slipping into the dark, abandoned house. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, his hand clutching his side where blood seeped through the torn fabric of his shirt. Six bullets had connected during the warehouse fight, and only his enhanced physique had kept him alive. But even that had its limits. Tonight had pushed him to the edge.

"Damn it," he muttered, staggering to a couch that looked like it hadn't been sat on in years. Dust puffed up as he collapsed onto it, his head leaning back against the worn fabric. For a moment, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the faint hum of the system in the back of his mind.

"Critical injuries detected. Current HP: 41/175. Rest and treatment strongly advised."

"No kidding," Allen spat, pulling his hand away from his side. His blood glistened darkly in the faint moonlight filtering through the broken windows. He tore a strip from his already-ruined shirt, pressing it against the wound to staunch the bleeding.

But even as he tended to himself, his mind was elsewhere—back in the warehouse. Back to the second quest.

"Leave them? Only take the strong ones?" Allen's voice was low, but the anger in it was unmistakable. He glared up at the ceiling, his voice rising. "What the hell is wrong with you? Those people would've died if I hadn't—"

"And?" the system's reply was cold, unfeeling. "A tyrant does not concern himself with the weak."

Allen froze, his jaw tightening. "You're serious? That's your grand plan? Let the weak die, just so I can—what? Rule over the strong?"

"Exactly," the system replied. "A tyrant is ruthless. Cunning. They do not waste time or resources on those who cannot contribute. If you wish to save people, do so. But understand this: mercy is a luxury a true ruler cannot afford."

Allen's fists clenched. He wanted to argue, to yell, to tell the system it was wrong. But deep down, a part of him—small, but growing—wondered if it was right. The thought made his stomach turn.

Before he could dwell on it further, a noise pulled him from his thoughts. The soft creak of a floorboard. Allen's hand instinctively went to the knife strapped to his belt. His body tensed as a figure emerged from the shadows.

"Who the hell are you?" Allen barked, raising the blade.

The figure froze, hands up. "Easy, man. I'm just squatting here. Don't want no trouble."

Allen studied him—a young man, maybe early twenties, dressed in ragged clothes that smelled of the streets. His initial instinct was to kill the guy . But then the system's words echoed in his mind: mercy is a luxury...

He hesitated, lowering the knife . "Get out," he said, his voice firm. "And don't come back."

The squatter nodded quickly, backing toward the door. But as he moved, something caught Allen's eye—a metallic glint at the man's waist. His eyes narrowed. "Stop," he ordered.

The squatter froze, panic flashing across his face. "L-look, I swear, I—"

Allen didn't wait. In a single motion, he lunged forward, grabbing the man's wrist and yanking the object free. A small device tumbled into his hand—a homemade bomb.

"You've got to be kidding me," Allen growled, shoving the man against the wall. "Who sent you? Bloodfang?"

The squatter didn't answer. Instead, his eyes darted to the device, his hand reaching for it. Allen acted on instinct, throwing the bomb toward the far corner of the room and diving for cover.

The explosion wasn't massive, but it was enough to shake the entire house. Allen hit the ground hard, the force of the blast knocking the air from his lungs. Debris rained down around him as the squatter slumped to the floor, unconscious from the shockwave.

Allen coughed, pulling himself up with a groan. "Yeah, sure," he muttered, brushing dust off his face. "This is exactly how I wanted my night to go."

His gaze flicked to the unconscious man, then to the wreckage of the bomb. The system's words echoed in his mind once more, taunting him.

"Mercy is a luxury..."

Allen shook his head, forcing the thought away. "Screw that," he muttered, dragging himself to his feet. "I'm not some heartless monster.

While he said this he knew that the gang is saying they know where he is at all times.

To Be Continued...