His pajamas hung loose and tattered, stained in patches of blood. The night air was thick with smoke, gunpowder, and the coppery scent of death. Yet none of it seemed to bother him. Not even the pain. Not even the chaos.
He walked forward, his blood-streaked face calm, expressionless, as his eyes locked on the group of Crimson Hand men who had shot Lilith. His steps were slow, deliberate. Purposeful.
One of them turned, eyes widening. "Shit," the man whispered.
Liam raised his rifle, took aim—
Click.
The empty chamber echoed louder than any explosion. No more bullets.
Liam's jaw clenched as he tossed the rifle aside. His walk didn't stop. He was already shifting his weight, moving into the first target. The nearest man tried to raise his weapon, but Liam was faster—he grabbed the rifle and smashed it across the man's face. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed.
