A Tyrant In Dc

The night was pitch black, the kind of darkness that swallowed the weak and tested the resolve of the determined. Allen sat slouched in the stolen car, its interior smelling faintly of weed and regret. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as his mind raced. A week of running, a week of hiding, and the Bloodfang still managed to find him. Every house, every corner he sought refuge in, they found him. He couldn't rest. He couldn't heal. The system's cold calculations stared back at him as he swiped his phone screen.

Level: 4

(EXP: 634/1000)

HP: 101/175 (Fatigued)

Abilities: Locked

Shop: Locked

Quests: Active (2 days, 11 hours, 0 minutes, 6 seconds)

The numbers mocked him. Every wound, every sleepless night—they all added up to this. His body ached with every breath, his muscles screaming for relief. But there was none. Time was running out, and he didn't have the luxury of waiting any longer.

Allen exhaled sharply, his breath fogging up the cracked windshield. "Two days left," he muttered. "Two days to take these nigas down."

He leaned back and pulled the duffle bag from the passenger seat. Inside were the few tools he managed to scavenge—a handful of crude bombs pieced together from the explosives he'd lifted off the goons he'd taken down. They weren't pretty, but they'd get the job done. As he zipped the bag shut, the system's silence hung over him like a judgmental shadow. It hadn't said much in days, not since their last conversation. The weight of its indifference pressed on him.

"Figures," Allen muttered. "You push me into this, and now you're just sitting back, enjoying the show."

No response. Typical.

The drive to the warehouse was uneventful, save for the growing tension coiling in his chest. He couldn't shake the fatigue. His head throbbed, his body felt sluggish, and every bump on the road sent a sharp jolt through his battered ribs. Still, he pressed on, gripping the wheel tighter with every mile.

When the warehouse finally came into view, Allen parked a good distance away and killed the engine. He stepped out into the night, his boots crunching against the gravel. The air was thick with the scent of oil and saltwater. Beyond the warehouse, he could see the faint outline of ships docked in the harbor. They were packing up. Whatever the Bloodfang were planning, it was about to move offshore.

Allen slung the duffle bag over his shoulder and crept closer, sticking to the shadows. The perimeter was dotted with guards, their movements lazy but deliberate. He crouched behind a stack of crates, scanning the area. His fingers brushed against the handle of his knife, a familiar comfort in the chaos.

"Alright," he whispered. "One step at a time."

The first guard didn't see it coming. Allen moved like a shadow, silent and precise. The man was slouched against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Allen's knife slid across his throat in one swift motion, and the guard crumpled to the ground without a sound. A faint chime echoed in Allen's mind.

+5 EXP

The notification was a small comfort, a reminder that every step forward brought him closer to his goal. He dragged the body into the shadows and quickly changed into the guard's uniform. It was a tight fit, but it would do.

Inside the warehouse, the scene was grim. Rows of containers were lined up, each one a prison for the innocent. Allen's jaw tightened as he saw the guards milling about, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders. He slipped deeper into the building, his eyes scanning for any signs of weakness.

The system's voice broke the silence.

"Quest updated: Reach the hostages. Time remaining: 2 days, 10 hours, 37 minutes."

Allen clenched his fists. "No pressure," he muttered.

He moved quickly, taking down guards wherever he could. A knife to the throat, a bomb tossed into an empty room to create a distraction—it was a deadly dance, and Allen was the choreographer. Each takedown brought another chime.

+3 EXP

+7 EXP

+10 EXP

The numbers ticked upward, but it wasn't enough. His body screamed for rest, his vision blurred at the edges. But he pushed on, driven by sheer willpower and the faint hope that he could make a difference.

He finally reached the center of the warehouse, where the hostages were kept. The sight made his blood boil. Men, women, and children were crammed into the containers, their faces pale and gaunt. The stench of fear and desperation hung heavy in the air. Allen's hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the container.

"This is wrong," he whispered. "This is so damn wrong."

The system's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Leave them here. Take only the strong ones."

Allen froze, his mind reeling. "What the hell are you talking about?" he hissed. "These people need help!"

"Hidden rewards available for following instructions."

Allen's fists slammed into the side of the container. "Screw your rewards! These are people, not numbers!"

His voice must have carried because a faint sound reached his ears. "Is… is somebody there is it you again sir"?

He turned to see a young boy clutching his mother's hand, his voice weak and trembling. Allen's anger softened as he knelt down. "Yeah, kid," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm here. I'm gonna get you all out of here."

The boy's eyes lit up, and soon, whispers of hope spread through the containers. Praises and shouts filled the air, and for a moment, Allen felt like a hero. But the moment was short-lived.

The far door creaked open, and a cold, calm voice shattered the fragile hope. "Who's here causing a ruckus in my operation?"

Allen turned to see a man flanked by armed goons. The man's gaze was sharp, calculating, and his movements exuded confidence. The system's voice screamed in Allen's mind.

"Danger detected! Danger detected!"

Allen's heart raced. He hadn't been able to hide from them. His first instinct was to take them head-on, but the sight of the rifles made him reconsider. He was outnumbered, outgunned, and running on fumes. As the goons spread out, Allen weighed his options.

"Run or fight," he muttered. "Neither's looking great."

The system's voice offered no guidance, only the cold, mechanical warning of impending doom. Gritting his teeth, Allen made his decision. He threw one of the bombs toward the far end of the warehouse, the explosion rocking the building. The goons scattered, their focus momentarily diverted. Allen didn't wait. ushering toward the nearest exit.

"Move! Now!" he shouted.

The chapter ended with Allen bursting out of the warehouse, the sound of gunfire and shouting echoing behind him. The Bloodfang weren't done with him yet, and the chase was only the end nearing to come.