Chapter Two

An abandoned auto repair shop in Little Havana, the air thick with the pungent smell of diesel fuel, the acrid stench of cheap marijuana, and deafening Latin reggae.

This was the lair of Hector and his drug gang, "The Hound Riders."

At four in the afternoon, the outdoor temperature was already nearing 125 degrees Fahrenheit. The tin-roofed workshop was like a giant oven. Two shirtless gangsters, tattooed with gang symbols, sat on rusty oil drums by the door, smoking and panting like dogs.

"Bang—!"

Without warning, without a word.

With a deafening roar, a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun spat out a nearly foot-long burst of blazing orange flame! Twelve .00 caliber buckshot bullets instantly tore through the chest of the henchman on the left, sending him flying like a rag doll, crashing into the roller shutter door and leaving a large pool of sticky blood.

"Enemy attack—(Spanish)!"

The henchman on the right screamed, reaching for his Uzi submachine gun at his waist, but I gave him no chance. "Click," the handguard was expertly pulled back, the hot spent cartridge case arcing through the air.

Boom! The second buckshot blasted his head apart like a ripe watermelon.

I expressionlessly stepped over the two mangled corpses and kicked open the factory's iron door.

Inside, Hector and the remaining five or six thugs were still reeling from the gunfire. I charged in like a cheetah, using a wrecked car engine as cover, my shotgun unleashing a textbook CQB (close-quarters combat) cleanup.

Each pull of the handguard meant the death of a Latin American gangster. Severed limbs, screams, and flying entrails painted a bloody, heavy metal scene in the cramped factory.

In less than a minute, deathly silence fell.

Hector's obese body was huddled under a Ford pickup truck, trembling as he tried to load the bullet into his gold-plated Colt revolver.

I walked over and stomped on his right wrist. With a sickening crack of bone, he screamed like a pig being slaughtered, and the gold-plated toy slid far away.

"Where's that damn metal tag?" I pressed the barrel of my gun against his left knee, my voice colder than the gunpowder smoke.

Hector, his face streaked with tears and snot, pointed to a Cuban cigar box on a table in the distance: "There... there! The bitch gave it to me... it's all there! Don't kill me, please don't kill me!"

I walked over and opened the box. The "Titanite tag," stained with dark brown blood, neither gold nor wood, lay quietly inside. I carefully tucked it away, feeling the eerie tremor emanating from it.

Turning around, I looked at Hector groaning on the ground, a cruel smirk playing on my lips.

If I kill him now, that bitch Catherine will only have one less deadly enemy. I'll keep this old dog alive; when the apocalypse truly arrives, he'll surely seek out Catherine with a raging rage to settle this score.

"Bang!"

I pulled the trigger, the buckshot shattering Hector's left kneecap. "This is for taking what you shouldn't have. Now, you can continue living, preparing for the coming hell."

Ignoring the drug lord's agonizing screams, I grabbed my gun and strode into the sweltering streets of Miami.

Back at the apartment, Catherine was huddled in a corner of the sofa, shivering, wrapped in a blanket; traces of her incontinence remained on the carpet. Seeing me walk in with a bloodstained gun, she was too terrified to even scream.

I completely ignored this unrecyclable piece of trash. I went straight into the bedroom, stuffed my tactical vest, remaining weapons and ammunition, and several important encrypted hard drives into my Duffel Bag, and slung it neatly over my shoulder.

“Chris…you…where are you going?” Catherine swallowed hard, trying to adopt her usual haughty tone, but her voice trembled uncontrollably. “You can’t just leave like this! You haven’t paid next month’s rent! And…I’m hungry, go get me some organic vegetable salad…”

“Don’t you like a slow life? Stay here and enjoy it.” I sneered and stepped out the door.

Taking the elevator, I pressed the button for the top floor of the building (the Penthouse).

It was the ultimate refuge I had secretly rented and built over six months using all the winnings from underground boxing matches in the black market. Completely bulletproof glass, a one-foot-thick pure steel hydraulic security door, and heavy-duty industrial freezers and military-grade MREs (individual rations) crammed into 150 square meters of space.

Everything was ready, just waiting for the right moment.

That night, at eight o’clock. The sky didn’t darken as usual.

Suddenly, the boundless Miami night sky was torn apart, and a bizarre, blood-red aurora, like hellfire, enveloped the entire North American continent. The "core flare" erupted prematurely.

"Buzz—Crack!"

Almost simultaneously, the lights along the entire south coast went out instantly after a violent flash of voltage. The global power grid was completely paralyzed by the terrifying electromagnetic pulse (EMP) of the solar storm.

The temperature, which had been barely maintaining 120 degrees Celsius, skyrocketed to 140 degrees Fahrenheit (approximately 60°C) in just ten minutes, as if it had been propelled by a rocket! Standing

before the bulletproof glass roof, I felt the air was so thick it felt like it was about to burst into flames. Just then, the Titan badge hanging on my chest suddenly emitted an unbearable heat!

Like a drop of boiling iron, it mysteriously seeped into my chest cavity without leaving any burn marks, heading straight for my heart!

"Ugh—!"

I abruptly knelt on the wooden floor, my eyes instantly turning a pure azure blue! A violent, excruciating pain, accompanied by an extremely powerful destructive force, surged through every vein in my body. I saw fine blue arcs of electricity shooting out from my pores. Free electrons in the air were frantically converging on me, my heart transforming into the world's most efficient nuclear engine!

[High-Voltage Thunderstorm Mutation], fully awakened!

I gasped for breath, rising from the ground. I grabbed the rough red and blue cables of the industrial main distribution box on the wall.

No need for a mechanical generator, no need for diesel. The blue-white high-voltage current, like a raging dragon, surged through my arms, flooding the shelter's wiring!

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The entire penthouse instantly blazed with lights! Three high-powered central air conditioners roared like behemoths, and the compressors of seven or eight industrial freezers began greedily running to cool the room. In less than two minutes, the indoor temperature plummeted from suffocating heat to -10 degrees Celsius!

With electricity, I grasped the scepter of God in this sweltering hell.

"Thump! Thump! Thump!"

Just as I was about to grab a bottle of chilled whiskey from the freezer to celebrate, a hysterical pounding came from outside the pure steel hydraulic door on the top floor.

I pressed the monitoring button on the table. The monitor screen lit up; it was Catherine.

The old apartment, without air conditioning, had transformed into a 60-degree enclosed oven in just a few tens of minutes of power outage. Catherine was a far cry from her former "socialite" image.

Her Victoria's Secret halter top was completely soaked with sweat, and her messy hair clung to her forehead. She was severely dehydrated, and red heat rashes had even appeared on her chest and arms from the sudden temperature rise.

"Chris! Open the door! You're here, aren't you? I can hear the air conditioner compressor!"

Catherine pounded on the half-foot-thick bulletproof door like a madwoman, her voice filled with disbelief and madness: "The power's out downstairs! Where are the property management companies?! Get the wiring fixed right now! I'm dying of heat!!!"

I leaned back on the leather sofa, unscrewed the bottle of Black Label whiskey covered in frost, and took a swig. The cool, rich liquid slid down my throat, dispelling the lingering heat after my powers awakened.

I stared at the distorted face on the screen, pressed the intercom, and spoke in a chilling tone.

"A calm mind brings coolness, Catherine."

"Didn't you say that being too restless is bad? Take a deep breath and wait it out."