The Man They Hired Was a Monster

New York. Brooklyn. Brownsville.

Inside an abandoned warehouse, the air reeked of rust and rot.

"Get in position." A raspy voice cut through the silence.

A man with an ugly snake-shaped scar crawling across his face—street name "Scarface"—gripped a modified Glock pistol tight.

Beside him, one of his lackeys shrank back, voice trembling. "Boss, if we do this, we're tearing up New York's underground rules. If Satan finds out—"

Scarface didn't let him finish. He spat on the concrete floor and cut him off with a snarl. "What's there to be afraid of? The Brownsville Bloods are a top-three crew in Brooklyn. Once we snatch Elizabeth and get our hands on that thing, even this so-called 'Satan' is gonna be on his knees licking my boots."

A low chuckle drifted out from the shadows.

"Oh, Scarface… where exactly does all that confidence come from?"

The arrogance on Scarface's face vanished in an instant. Before he could even react, a flash of silver tore through the air.

His gun arm severed clean at the shoulder and hit the ground with a dull thud.

Blood sprayed like a fountain, but the pain shooting through his stump was nothing compared to the bone-chilling terror flooding his chest.

He stared at the figure emerging from the darkness—a man wearing that unmistakable blood-red mask etched with demonic patterns.

The hardened criminals who'd been locked and loaded just moments ago now stood frozen in place, as if paralyzed by some unseen force.

It wasn't that they didn't want to fight back. They all knew the iron law: when Satan stands before you, the only thing you can do is drop your weapon. That's your only chance at survival.

Any thought of resistance was suicide.

Because he wasn't human. He was a demon returned from hell.

Scarface felt his heart stop, then start hammering wildly. Ice-cold blood surged through his limbs.

He tried to raise his hand, but his arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He tried to beg for mercy, but his throat was clamped shut by an invisible hand. No sound came out.

"How do you want to die?"

The voice wasn't loud, but it rang in his skull like a death knell.

I'm going to die.

No matter what.

Beg and die. Fight and die.

Extreme fear gave birth to extreme madness.

Scarface's mind went blank. Only one animal instinct remained—bite out his throat before he kills me.

"AHHH—!"

He let out a scream that didn't sound human—a sound filled with terror, despair, and hysterical insanity.

He yanked the pistol from his waist and emptied the magazine in Caesar's direction, squeezing the trigger over and over in a frenzy.

"Kill him! Open fire! FIRE!!" His command came out mixed with his own gunshots, chaotic and unhinged.

"Kill him!" Scarface shrieked like a cornered beast.

Over a dozen assault rifles roared to life. A storm of bullets wove into a net of fire, shredding the spot where Caesar had been standing into rubble.

"Cease fire!" Scarface barked.

Silence fell.

The hail of gunfire had carved a massive crater into the concrete floor, but Caesar's figure had vanished without a trace.

Scarface's gaze swept wildly around the warehouse. A bead of cold sweat slid down his temple.

"AHHH—!"

A scream. Then a sickening crunch.

Scarface whipped his head around. Caesar was now standing on the opposite end of the warehouse—no one had seen him move.

The entire warehouse fell deathly silent.

Caesar took one step forward.

A head dropped to the floor.

His footsteps became a metronome of death.

Each step harvested a life with surgical precision.

Scarface watched helplessly as his men were beheaded one by one, their heads rolling across the floor like bowling balls, faces frozen in uncomprehending terror. He couldn't even see how Caesar moved.

His body shook like a leaf. Snot and tears streamed down his face uncontrollably.

Finally, Caesar stopped in front of him and crouched down slowly. Behind the mask, his smile carried the amusement of a predator toying with prey.

"Scarface," he whispered in a serpent's hiss, "go to hell and repent to Satan."

Scarface's eyes bulged wide, frozen with the boundless terror he would carry to his grave.

Standing alone in the blood-soaked warehouse, Caesar pulled out a satellite phone and sent a message:

Mission complete. Requesting extraction.

A moment later, instead of a text reply, the screen flashed: Incoming video call.

Caesar answered.

A silver-haired man with the presence of an old-school general appeared on screen. His first words were a roar. "Caesar! You went too far this time!"

Caesar was used to this kind of scolding. He shrugged lazily. "Relax, old man. I took out New York's most notorious scumbag, Scarface. Mission accomplished. Don't sweat the details."

He leaned closer to the screen with a cocky grin. "So… about this 'new assignment.' Can we negotiate? Babysitting some billionaire's daughter isn't worth my paygrade. Just send me back to Africa. I'd rather hunt warlords than play bodyguard."

The old man on screen snorted coldly. "Dream on. Elizabeth Williams is no vapid socialite." He paused, then dropped a bombshell. "Our intel suggests she may have been one of your mother's students."

The smug expression on Caesar's face froze instantly. His pupils contracted.

"What did you just say?"

The old man's tone softened slightly. "We've been monitoring her. Your mother's 'plane crash' years ago wasn't an accident—someone leaked her location. And now, Elizabeth is researching a bioenhancement serum formula. Its core design is identical to your mother's final project."

He let Caesar absorb that, then continued. "If she succeeds, we can replicate the miracle inside you. We can mass-produce a new generation of super soldiers."

Caesar's jaw tightened. "So you want me to play bodyguard."

"This is a mission." The old man's voice turned stern again. "Caesar, what is our purpose?"

Caesar straightened instinctively, his voice sharp and resolute. "We are the blade in the dark, born to crush all conspiracies. We are the nation's sharpest weapon!"

The old man nodded with satisfaction. "We've received intel that not only foreign powers, but also domestic factions are eyeing her research—including bought-and-paid-for puppets. Your mission is to protect her and tear apart the network hiding in the shadows. Root out every single traitor."

A dangerous smile crept across Caesar's lips. "Rules of engagement?"

The old man didn't hesitate. "Traitors are to be eliminated on sight."

Caesar glanced at the profile photo on screen—a woman, cool and beautiful, with sharp, intelligent eyes.

"I'll take it."

The old man's face lit up immediately. "That's my boy! I knew you wouldn't let me down. I've already cleared things with her father, Raymond. Since you're already in New York, no need to return to base. Starting today, you're Ms. Williams's personal security consultant."

Caesar rolled his eyes. He was one hundred percent certain the old fox had set him up.

"Fine. What about my operational budget?"

"What? Sorry? You're breaking up… I can't hear you…"

The call cut off.

Caesar glared at the dead screen and muttered a curse. "You bloodsucking vampire. Every time money comes up, you play dead. Next time I'm tearing your office apart."

Just then, the roar of an engine echoed in the distance. A cherry-red sports car was speeding down the road toward the warehouse.

Caesar's lips curled into a smile. "At least the old bastard has some conscience. Didn't forget to send me a ride."

The car got closer and closer, a red blur tearing down the street.

He could now make out the driver—a blonde woman with striking blue eyes, gorgeous face, killer body—and a look of sheer panic.

"Not bad," Caesar thought. "The guy has taste after all."

But the car wasn't slowing down.

"GET OUT OF THE WAY!" the woman screamed, frantically trying to regain control of the runaway vehicle.

Too late. The sports car charged at him like a crazed bull.