Just as things had finally begun to calm—Arabella babbling on about superheroes, her tears drying into giggles—everything changed again.
The sound ca first.
It started as a low rumble, barely audible at first—like distant thunder just under the skin of the world. A tremor in the calm. A murmur that grew deeper, louder, until it thrumd in the pavent itself. Deeper. Sharper. More rhythmic.
Engines. Not one. Not two.
Multiple.
Half a dozen, maybe more.
Low, smooth, coordinated.
Too smooth.
Rex turned his head slightly.
Then saw them.
A convoy. A fleet of sleek black vehicles barreling around the corner, silent but commanding, like wolves on the hunt. SUVs. Armored. Not police, not press. Sothing else.
They definately weren’t ordinary vehicles. They looked like escort cars—governnt-grade, but higher-end, polished to a mirror sheen. Tinted windows, reinforced fras, the kind of presence that scread power without needing to flash a badge.
Governnt-grade, private contractor, maybe even sothing deeper.
They didn’t slow.
They didn’t hesitate.
They moved like they owned the road—or had just declared martial law.
In seconds, the street was boxed in. One vehicle cut off the street from the north. Another slamd into position from the east. A third drifted into a sideways stop behind them. More kept coming—filling in the periter with military efficiency, like a trap closing shut.
Before anyone could react, doors swung open in eerie unison.
Boots hit pavent with a loud, unified thud.
n in black suits and boots stepped out with practiced precision—faces blank, expressions unreadable, each movent tight and efficient. They moved like parts of the sa machine, synchronized and chanical.
And then—without a flicker of hesitation—they drew.
Weapons raised in unison, the motion smooth and terrifyingly silent. Barrels glinted under the streetlight. Aid. Locked. Directly at Rex.
Their movents were so fluid, so drilled, it sent a chill crawling up the spine. The kind of efficiency that didn’t belong to thugs or amateurs—but to n who’d been trained to kill without blinking.
He froze, montarily stunned.
What the hell—
He barely had ti to react. His arms instinctively tightened around Arabella, shielding her as she flinched and hid her face again.
Honestly, Did he forget to check the almanac before stepping out today? Maybe Mars was in retrograde. Or maybe so god was jealous of his looks?
Or worse—maybe so mischievous, face-loving goddess had taken a personal liking to him and decided she couldn’t wait to et him in the afterlife. Maybe she was up there right now, fluffing pillows and lighting celestial candles, pulling strings to get him killed faster and shipped to her private celestial harem by express delivery.
He could practically hear her purring, "Co on, hurry up, I cleared a velvet seat for you!"
The sheer absurdity of the thought almost made him laugh. Almost.
He blinked, genuinely confused for a second—half-expecting a lightning bolt or an angelic voice saying, "Oops, ti to go, a goddess has taken fancy."
But no. Just guns. A whole lot of them. All aid at his face.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was he supposed to be honored that a small army had shown up just for him? Or mourn the fact that he’d likely missed his chance at celestial snu-snu with a goddess? If she really had been pulling strings to get him to the afterlife faster, this was one hell of a shortcut.
Because of course, even in a deadly standoff, Rex’s brain had to go on a vacation to the Land of Dumb Thoughts—complete with a sunhat and souvenir mug.
He didn’t know whether to laugh at the absurdity or weep at the timing. So people saw their life flash before their eyes. Rex? He got a highlight reel of sarcastic hypotheticals. Did the universe have a vendetta? Was this karma for not tipping in his past life? Or maybe just the latest episode in the grand cosmic sitcom titled This Idiot’s Life.
But the humor faded fast.
Reality had teeth—and now it was biting down, hard. The absurdity of divine harem theories burned away in the cold light of a dozen rifles aid straight at him. Each second weighed heavier than the last, thick with dread.
Honestly, It happened fast. Too fast. One second, it was peace. The next, chaos dressed in black.
But not fast enough to catch Victor and Kaalan off guard.
The mont those suits moved, both n were already acting—reflexes honed by countless close calls, instincts sharpened like blades. They didn’t hesitate. No questions. No delay. Both n surged forward, flanking Rex with trained efficiency. Their own weapons were out in seconds—barrels raised, eyes locked.
The air thickened instantly.
Victor’s eyes narrowed, body angling between Rex and the threat, while Kaelan moved with a slow, crushing precision, as if daring anyone to test his reach. Their expressions were cold, unflinching, hands steady on their triggers.
Both of them locked into position, flanking Rex in perfect symtry.
No fear. Just control. There was no panic in them. No confusion. Just practiced control. Their motions were smooth, professional, and terrifyingly focused.
In the span of a breath, they transford from guards to walls of iron. And they were ready to hold the line.
The suited n on the other side faltered for half a beat—clearly not expecting resistance, especially not such a fast, well-coordinated reaction. The tension spiked, electric and imdiate.
The air tightened like it had been vacuum-sealed. Every breath felt heavier. The tension was suffocating—wired to a hair-trigger.
The world around them reacted the only way it knew how.
Screams.
Panic.
Screams erupted like fireworks. People who had been filming seconds ago were now running like their lives depended on it, dropping phones, shoving strangers, shopping bags flying. Drivers ducked low or threw their cars into reverse, bumper-to-bumper chaos erupting in seconds. Others sprinted behind cover like they’d rehearsed this before.
Welco to LA.
This was LA, after all. This city might not be as chaotic as Chicago—the real-world Gotham—but it had its own brand of madness. It is called the gang capital of Arica for a reason. Ho to hundreds of gangs and god knows how many turf wars. Guns weren’t a novelty here—they were a warning sign that people had learned not to ignore.
It didn’t matter how rich or polished a neighborhood looked. Everyone had heard sothing pop off once. And when it did, survival instincts kicked in like muscle mory.
And right now?
This street felt like the set of an action movie—though more like a chaotic cody, if you looked around. Pure bedlam erupted around them. One man dove headfirst over a hedge like he was auditioning for a spy film. Another tried to hide inside a trash can with all the grace of a panicked raccoon. A woman abandoned her designer purse mid-run, screaming like the thing was cursed.
And another—walking earthquake of a woman and twice as loud—shrieked loud enough to shake birds from trees, flailing her arms as if she were the pri target in a sniper thriller. What she didn’t know was that between her chaotic flailing and modest size, she posed more of a threat to nearby pedestrians than the actual n with guns.
It was chaos. Ridiculous, terrifying chaos.
(End of Chapter)
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