Bang bang bang bang—
Though Agent Cid's was a balding, middle-aged man with a middle-aged man with a beer belly and the round-cheeked grin of a retired pub regular, mercy was the last thing you'd associate with him. Without a word, he raised his submachine gun and unleashed a sweeping burst. Anything that twitched or moved was mercilessly gunned down.
A punk near the door, still dazed from a grenade blast and seeing hallucinations of long-legged bunny girls dancing before his eyes, was abruptly enlightened by a hail of lead.
There's a saying among mercs: "Blessed be the Holy Gatling—six barrels of divine judgment, 3,600 rounds a minute, bringing salvation through superior firepower."
What? A monster?
Eat my armor-piercing gospel, demon scum!
Submachine guns excel at suppressive fire. Even if the aim isn't perfect, the sheer volume of bullets forces the enemy into cover. Agent Cid had no choice but to dive for shelter as his mirrored roulette board was shattered by the relentless barrage.
Funny how some people look like they're off duty, but they actually sneaked back in to continue fighting. What's the idea? "I'll drag you all down with me.JPG"?
Not happening.
To those in the grand hall, these thugs weren't just smugglers and murderers—they were walking experience points. Each one shot down by Agent Cid meant fewer heroic points for Beatrix. If Agent Cid's soloed the whole squad, they'd be losing out big time.
So, someone needed to draw fire from the front. That would free up Beatrix's side from acting too cautiously. Batman used the cover of darkness, creeping like a cat behind two thugs, then struck with a double palm blow that knocked them out cold.
The deafening gunfire masked his movement and attack. Everyone was fixated on Agent Cid, so no one noticed the silent assassin lurking behind.
But it didn't matter.
You never know if your teammate is a literal god of war.
Beatrix soon realized that Agent Cid's wasn't just some random dude—he was terrifyingly good. Despite facing so many enemies alone, he kept the upper hand.
He shot while repositioning, always seeking cover, flanking the enemy, exposing their lines, and picking them off. From a god's-eye view, he looked like a protagonist tearing through enemy ranks with an invisible AT-field shielding him from bullets. Like a lone commando tearing through enemy lines from Normandy's beaches to the heart of Berlin.
And this wasn't fiction. Agent Cid actually fought like that. It was like he could read their minds, see their positions, and predict every move.
He moved too fast for the human eye, dodging bullets with ease. Even debris from shattered furniture became his camouflage. And every shot he fired found its mark—even enemies hiding behind cover weren't safe.
In the blink of an eye, everyone in the lounge had been taken down.
Twenty-two enemies. All down.
Agent Cid lit a cigarette, slinging his weapon over his shoulder, standing among craters and blood-splattered roulette tables. He frowned, deep in thought.
In chaotic firefights like this, it's hard to tell exactly who killed whom. It's basically a battle of firepower.
But thirteen bodies weren't his kills.
That meant someone else had been there.
The scary part? He hadn't even noticed them during the fight.
Agent Cid narrowed his eyes.
Something else was here. Something like a ghost. It passed through the battlefield without a sound, like Death itself swinging a transparent scythe.
It wiped out thirteen people, and he never even sensed it.
"Interesting," he muttered.
Rather than fear, Agent Cid chuckled. He glanced around the bloodied hall, lit a new cigarette, and stepped over corpses as he moved deeper in.
He didn't try to find the "ghost." What was the point?
His purpose was simple: he couldn't stand the sight of scum. Like bugs in the sewer, if he saw them, he had to crush them. Otherwise, he wouldn't sleep easy.
Just like that time he broke the neck of that pedophile during interrogation—pure impulse.
Agent Cid walked ahead. Batman silently followed in the shadows.
Beatrix, controlling Batman from afar, was also puzzled.
According to the two thugs, the gang leaders should've been in a meeting. That firefight just now shook the ceiling, yet no one in the meeting reacted?
Eventually, they reached the conference room. Agent Cid emptied an entire magazine into the door before kicking it open and walking in.
But the room was empty. The table was a mess, food was scattered, and cigarettes had only recently gone out.
Clearly, people had just been here moments ago.
Turns out the gang leaders, under Chief Nagase orders, had already escaped out the back and were now fleeing toward the underground garage.
Nagase, while running, cursed his luck. Business ruined, affairs exposed, and his mistress turned out to be his sister? He was living a bad drama.
He'd been ambushed out of nowhere, and now his stronghold was being stormed by maniacs.
Still, he was confident he could rise again.
Click.
Suddenly, every light in the garage went out. Darkness swallowed the space whole.
Every fleeing gangster froze, panic rising in their chests.
Then, from the shadows, came a sound that made their blood run cold
Laughter.