Instantly, he opened his inventory, tapping the gun icon. The bloodstained weapon dropped into his palm, the weight of it unfamiliar but heavy in his grasp. His fingers tightened around the handle as though instinctively preparing for what might come next, but for a moment, he hesitated.
He quickly scanned his surroundings with his new optics. His heart thudded against his chest as he scanned for any movement, any sign of life.
Nothing.
But he could hear shuffling, the shifting of feet from inside his apartment. Muffled voices, they didn't know he was here, not yet at least.
His eyes flicked back to the stairs, he could leave…he could flee, his eyes flicked back to his apartment door. He remembered the mission given to him when he first got his Kerenzikov.
Become a Legend
He wanted that, so badly, to become a legend, to have a legacy, something that lived beyond him. Would he become a legend if he just fled at the first sign of resistance?
No, he'd just be like everyone else.
His grip tightened around his gun, knuckles turning white with tension as he opened his System with a thought, the blue window seeming to illuminate the surrounding area.
Name - James Buckley
Title - Murderer
Age - 19
Eddies - €3,000
Level - 14
STR - 14
END - 11
DEX - 20
INT - 9
WIS - 9
8 Attribute Points!
Skills
Inventory (!)
Missions
Store
Settings
He stared at the attribute points. He'd been saving, unsure where to place them, but now? Now was the time.
No hesitation.
He tapped DEX, allocating all 8 points.
A brief shiver ran through him. Subtle, almost unnoticeable—like the moment before a sprint, when your body tensed, anticipating the movement. His grip on the gun shifted, and he realized it almost felt…lighter.
He flexed his fingers, rolling his wrist. Smoother. There was no stiffness—just motion, effortless and immediate. He took a deep breath, slowly and silently pushing the ajar door open with the barrel of the blood covered gun.
The muffled voices got louder, James barely able to make it out.
"-is he?" One man asked, a distinct southern twang to his voice.
"I'm telling you, I saw him leave" another man, a thick, unrecognisable accent insisted.
"Then where's the damn body" the man from the south hissed, James' pulse slammed against his ribs, but his grip didn't falter. The gun sat steady in his hands.
They knew about the body. But they didn't know where he was.
He took a slow step inside, the door easing shut behind him without a whisper. Shadows pooled in the dim light, stretching long across the floor. The apartment reeked of blood, metallic and thick in the air.
Three men. He could see them now.
One by the kitchen counter, picking through scattered dishes. Broad shoulders, a thick jacket. A pistol tucked at his hip.
Another near the couch, flipping through papers—his papers. He moved with quick, restless energy, a knife strapped to his thigh.
And the last one—Southerner—stood in the center of the room, his hands on his hips. Older. Built like a man who'd done hard labor in his youth and never let it go. His jacket was unzipped, revealing the grip of a revolver at his side.
He was still hidden, the men's backs to him as he stalked closer, making sure to avoid creaky floorboards as he did.
He thought back to the quest, he needed to find out who these men were working for. For that, he needed one of them alive, so he raised the pistol. He'd never even shot a gun before, but it couldn't be that hard…
Just point and shoot he thought to himself as he aimed, centre mass to the man closest to him.
The Southerner
The gun suddenly felt heavier in his grip. His finger hovered over the trigger, stiff, unwilling.
For a split second, he imagined the recoil, the sound, the way the man's body would jerk from the impact. He could still walk away. Slip out the door and disappear.
Time seemed to slow the slightest amount as Predator Instinct kicked in, his heartbeat slowing and breath steadying.
He wanted to be a Legend.
He would be remembered, immortalised by his actions.
These men wouldn't.
He squeezed the trigger.
The gun kicked in his grip. The sound was deafening in the small apartment, a sharp crack that drowned out everything else.
The Southerner jerked forward, a red bloom spreading across his back as he stumbled. His revolver was halfway out of its holster when his legs buckled, sending him crashing onto the coffee table. The cheap wood splintered beneath his weight, shards clattering across the floor.
Silence. For half a second, that was all there was.
Then—
"The fuck?!" The man by the kitchen spun, hand reaching for his pistol.
James didn't think. His body moved before his mind caught up, his Kerenzikov flaring to life with a whir. Time stretched, seconds turning sluggish. His grip adjusted, finger pulling the trigger again.
The shot landed. The man staggered, crashing against the counter, knocking dishes to the floor.
The third man—the one with the knife—was already moving. Fast. He lunged at James, blade flashing toward his throat.
James didn't think—his Kerenzikov flared, the world slowing around him. He weaved to the side, the knife slicing past where his neck had been a heartbeat ago. Another stab—closer this time—but he was already slipping past it, moving with an ease that felt unnatural.
His body responded before his mind caught up. He wasn't just dodging. He was flowing, shifting between attacks like this was instinct. Like he was above them
Stronger. Faster. Better.
The thought barely had time to settle before his fist shot forward, a blur of motion. It crashed into the knife wielder's face with a brutal crack, his head snapping back as blood sprayed the wall behind him.
James exhaled.
God, that felt good.
He stepped forward, dropping to a knee beside the dazed man. Without thinking, he plucked the knife from his limp grasp, slipping it into his inventory like it was second nature.
Then, he met the man's bleary, pain-glazed eyes. "Who do you work for?" His voice was calm. Too calm. As if answer didn't matter. Like the man's life was already decided.
The man lets out a gurgling laugh, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "You're fucked" the man chuckled, his nose clearly broken as blood poured from it in rivulets.
"You killed Sean" the man said with a chuckle, shaking his head in almost amusement. "We-we found the blood, the boss knows already"
James felt a flicker of worry rise in him, but he beat it down.
He clenched his jaw, gaze fixed on the bloody man. "Who's your boss?" he pressed, his patience wearing thin.
The man snorted again, a grotesque sound as more blood shot from his nose. "You really don't know who he is, do you?"
James narrowed his eyes, growing impatient, but the man's faint chuckle only deepened his sense of unease.
"Patrick Doherty," the man rasped, his words heavy with a sneer, "The boss of the Irish."
James froze.
A chill ran through him, settling deep in his bones. Patrick Doherty. The name hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd heard the whispers, the stories from the street.
The Irish weren't just another gang—they were the gang. Silent but deadly, with roots buried deep in the city's underworld. A network so vast, so dangerous, that even the most hardened criminals learned quickly not to cross them.
And he'd just killed one of their own.
He took a slow breath, trying to steady his pulse, but the reality of it—the weight of his situation—pressed down on him. His grip tightened around the gun, and his stomach churned. The man's words echoed in his mind: The boss knows already.
That meant they knew where he was.
He clenched his jaw. The heat of panic started to rise in his chest, but he swallowed it down. No. He couldn't back down now. He'd just made his choice. There was no running, no escaping. Not anymore.
Legends didn't run. They didn't hide. They faced down the impossible and carved their name into the world.
Ping!
Congratulations! Mission Accomplished!
Rewards - Dash Mastery (Level One), 5000 Eddies, Malorian Overture.
He opened his inventory with a thought, the small icon of the Malorian Overture catching his eye. With a mental command, the revolver materialized in his hand, its heavy, deadly frame fitting perfectly into his grip.
The knife-wielding man's eyes widened in shock, his breath caught in his throat as James casually manipulated space and time to summon the weapon.
James looked back down at the man, the powerful revolver feeling oddly like an extension of his arm.
BANG!
—-
Sorry if there are any mistakes!!! Very tired rn :( will fix any mistakes when I wake up! Please point them out if you saw any!
Also, thoughts? And ideas, hit me with them :)