[Warning 18+] Explicit bloody and brutal scenes. Unsuitable for under-age rea
"Listen, honey... get yourself together and get the hell out of there immediately," Mrs. Smith hissed into her phone. "No!! You don't have time to give a statement! You can call the police anonymously and then get yourself out of there. You have to be at the river before 8 PM! Yes, I will contact Yong again. I'll barge into his damn temple and drag him out myself if necessary. Okay, be careful. I love you."
After ending the conversation with her husband, Mrs. Smith let out a long sigh. They had underestimated this guy. When Johnson died, they initially thought it was a coincidence, but as a precaution, they acted immediately. There was no way that guy could be in two places miles apart at once, right? But they were wrong. Now, she suspected the culprit wasn't working alone.
She sighed again before picking up her phone. She muttered a silent prayer, then dialed a number. She had called this number before, but Yong's disciple had told her that he was in closed-door meditation. This time, she hoped someone above would help her reach him.
"Hello, Eve?"
"Yong!!!" Mrs. Smith couldn't help but exclaim at the sound of his voice. Thank you... thank you, she whispered inwardly to those in Heaven.
"What's wrong? Why are you shouting?!"
"I'm so glad you picked up this time... You have to help me... He... They... they got Bobby..."
"Calm down... calm down... Take a deep breath."
Mrs. Smith did as he said.
"Now tell me."
"Someone called us this morning. He said he has Bobby. I heard Bobby's voice, so I'm sure it's true. He wants the team members to reunite—at least three of us."
"That should be easy, right? You guys and Johnson are still—"
"Johnson died this morning."
"Amitabha... Then why didn't you call me earlier?"
"I did. But your disciple said you were in meditation."
"Wait... what?! I have no disciple!"
"What?!?!"
"And I wasn't in meditation. I was out all day, and my phone was in my pocket the whole time."
Mrs. Smith froze as a chilling realization crept over her. She was being played. He hacked my phone... our phones. That so-called disciple—he was either the culprit or one of them.
"He hacked me... us... He might be listening right now," she whispered to Yong.
"Maybe..." Yong sighed. He had always been the brain of the team. That was probably why the culprit had made sure the Smiths couldn't reach him earlier. "We've lost a step now. All we can do is play along with whatever they want."
"He wants us to gather at the riverside—River C—before 8 PM," Mrs. Smith said.
"Okay, I'll be there. I promise you," Yong replied.
"Thank you, Yong. I need to get on my plane now," she said, but then something struck her. "Yong, please be careful... Akira and Anna are dead too."
-
7:30 PM, River C
Half-running, Mrs. Smith hurried down the stairs to the riverside. She rushed to the exact location texted by the kidnapper twenty minutes ago, just after she had landed at the airport. The moment she arrived, she immediately called Yong.
"Where are you?" she asked as soon as he picked up.
"On your right," Yong said.
Mrs. Smith turned her head. She saw a trash can with its lid slightly open. Through the gap, she spotted a hand waving at her.
"I'll come out when Jordan arrives," Yong added before ending the call.
Mrs. Smith sighed. There was nothing she could do except wait for her husband. She was restless. Their ex-teammates had been slaughtered before their eyes, and her husband had a bomb strapped around his neck that was set to detonate in thirty minutes. And then there was her son—her precious son, born after so many struggles and failed attempts.
She couldn't bear the thought of losing him. Covering her face with her hands, she struggled to hold herself together. The only reason she had managed to contact Yong again was because the kidnapper had allowed it—not because of luck. She no longer believed in prayers.
"Eve!!"
Someone called her name. It was her husband—she recognized his voice instantly. When she turned, she saw him limping down the stairs. She let out a sigh of relief and rushed toward him, embracing him tightly.
"Did you manage to contact Yong?" Mr. Smith asked. His face was pale, smeared with blood, his expression filled with horror.
"Yes... yes... he's already here," Mrs. Smith whispered back. Mr. Smith let out his own sigh of relief.
"Let's go," he said.
Still holding onto each other, they made their way to the designated location. Once there, the trash can lid opened again, and a man swiftly jumped out, walking hastily toward them.
"Yong..." Mr. and Mrs. Smith hissed at the same time.
"How are you?" Yong asked rhetorically, patting Mr. Smith on the shoulder.
Mrs. Smith didn't waste any time—she immediately dialed the number that had texted her. But before she could finish, her phone rang.
"Hello, Eve," the same voice greeted her.
"We're here. Look—the three of us are here," Mrs. Smith said urgently, her voice high-pitched with tension.
"Great job!! I knew the Seven Slayers wouldn't let me down," the caller said.
"Now release my son!!" Mrs. Smith demanded.
"Of course... Don't worry. He's just enjoying himself, sailing across the river," the caller said. "You see that boat? He's on it. The boat will dock at the port to your left in about five minutes."
"Cancel the bomb!" Mr. Smith yelled into the phone.
"Sure. I'll stop the timer now," the caller replied casually. The moment he finished speaking, the timer on the bomb stopped. Mrs. Smith let out a sharp cry of relief and hugged her husband tightly.
"Be patient. Just five more minutes, and you'll be reunited with your son," the caller added.
"Don't you dare harm him!" Mrs. Smith warned.
"I'm a man of my word, Eve. I haven't harmed him, and I won't," the caller reassured her.
Mrs. Smith didn't reply. She kept her eyes fixed on the boat as it slowly approached the dock. Deep down, she braced herself for the worst—an explosion, the boat suddenly sinking, or something even more terrible. But nothing happened.
Exactly five minutes later, the boat docked. A ten-year-old boy stepped off, accompanied by a woman. The moment he saw his mother, his face lit up with a wide smile.
"Mommy!!" Bobby cried, jumping off the boat and running toward her.
Mr. and Mrs. Smith ran to meet him.
"Bobby!! Thank goodness!" Mrs. Smith exclaimed, pulling her son into a tight embrace. "Are you okay, dear? Are you hurt?"
Bobby shook his head. "No, I'm okay, Mommy! We went on a city tour! We went to the zoo and museums, and we got to ride a boat! It was so cool!!" he said excitedly, rambling about his adventures.
"That's good, boy... that's good," Mr. Smith said, gently ruffling his son's hair.
"Daddy... what is that on your neck?" Bobby asked, staring at the device strapped around Mr. Smith's throat.
Mr. Smith rubbed the bomb reflexively, forcing a smile. "Oh... this is just—"
DONG...
The city tower clock across the river rang out, drowning his voice.
A split second later—
"No!!"
His wife's short, sharp scream shattered the air.
Mr. Smith's head snapped toward her, only to witness Yong's body crumpling to the ground like a rag doll. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the dirt dark.
Before Mr. Smith could fully process the horror, a shrill, mechanical beep filled the air.
His heart plummeted.
The bomb.
"No... No!!" Mrs. Smith shrieked, her hands flying to the device around her husband's neck. She clawed at the straps, fingers trembling. Mr. Smith joined her in a desperate, fumbling attempt to remove it.
The beeping quickened.
Faster.
Faster.
Until—
BOOM!!
Mr. Smith's head exploded into a grotesque spray of flesh, bone, and brain matter, splattering across his wife and son. The sound was deafening, the force knocking Mrs. Smith backward. Warm blood dripped from her hair, her face, her trembling hands.
She didn't even realize she was screaming until her throat burned.
"You promised me!!" she shrieked into the phone, her voice raw with rage and agony. "You PROMISED!!"
The voice on the other end responded with chilling indifference.
"I promised your son would be unharmed," the caller said smoothly. "I never promised to spare your husband. Nor did I agree to let any Slayers live."
DONG... DONG...
The city clock continued its merciless tolling.
Mrs. Smith's phone slipped from her bloodstained fingers. Her strength was gone. She slumped onto the ground, numb, broken, her sobs the only sound beyond the distant lapping of the river.
"Mommy..."
A small, flat voice.
Her breath hitched.
She turned her head, locking eyes with Bobby.
Her son stood motionless, his face eerily blank. No tears. No fear. Only emptiness.
And then she saw the knife.
A sharp, gleaming blade clutched in his small hands.
Her stomach dropped.
"Honey... what are you doing?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Bobby tilted his head slightly, his tone devoid of emotion.
"Mommy is evil. I have to kill Mommy."
With a swift movement, he lunged.
The knife drove toward her stomach, but pure instinct saved her—she caught his wrist just in time, stopping the blade mere inches from her flesh.
"No, Bobby—Bobby loves Mommy!" she cried, gripping his trembling hands. Her own blood mixed with his tiny fingers as she fought to keep the weapon at bay. "Remember, Bobby! We played together... Mommy took care of you when you fell off your bike. Remember that? Mommy loves you, and Bobby loves Mommy!"
Bobby blinked. Once. Twice. His lips quivered.
"Mommy... loves Bobby?"
"Yes," she whispered desperately, nodding. "And Bobby loves Mommy."
A long silence.
Bobby's grip on the knife loosened slightly.
"Bobby... loves—"
"The bending has failed. I repeat, the bending has failed," The Strategist's cold voice crackled over the two-way radio.
"We have 30 seconds left," The Hacker muttered, agitation clear in his voice.
"Marksman, can you handle it?" The Strategist asked.
"No problem," Quint responded.
From his vantage point across the river, he watched the scene unfold through the high-powered scope of his rifle. The woman, bathed in blood, clutching the boy. The hesitation in the child's stance. The slight tremble in his fingers.
Quint's finger hovered over the trigger. He inhaled deeply, adjusting his position ever so slightly to ensure a clean shot.
"Ten seconds," The Hacker warned, voice tight with nerves.
Quint exhaled.
At the end of his breath, his finger pressed the trigger.
The bullet sliced through the air in a blink.
Across the river, Mrs. Smith's head jerked back. A neat hole bored through her forehead.
For a split second, she remained frozen, her mouth slightly open—then she collapsed, lifeless, her blood seeping into the dirt.
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