The Man They Hired Was a Monster

New York. Brooklyn. Brownsville.

Inside an abandoned warehouse, the air reeked of rust and rot.

"Get in position." A raspy voice cut through the silence.

A man with an ugly snake-shaped scar crawling across his face—street name "Scarface"—gripped a modified Glock pistol tight.

Beside him, one of his lackeys shrank back, voice trembling. "Boss, if we do this, we're tearing up New York's underground rules. If Satan finds out—"

Scarface didn't let him finish. He spat on the concrete floor and cut him off with a snarl. "What's there to be afraid of? The Brownsville Bloods are a top-three crew in Brooklyn. Once we snatch Elizabeth and get our hands on that thing, even this so-called 'Satan' is gonna be on his knees licking my boots."

A low chuckle drifted out from the shadows.

"Oh, Scarface… where exactly does all that confidence come from?"

The arrogance on Scarface's face vanished in an instant. Before he could even react, a flash of silver tore through the air.

His gun arm severed clean at the shoulder and hit the ground with a dull thud.

Blood sprayed like a fountain, but the pain shooting through his stump was nothing compared to the bone-chilling terror flooding his chest.

He stared at the figure emerging from the darkness—a man wearing that unmistakable blood-red mask etched with demonic patterns.

The hardened criminals who'd been locked and loaded just moments ago now stood frozen in place, as if paralyzed by some unseen force.

It wasn't that they didn't want to fight back. They all knew the iron law: when Satan stands before you, the only thing you can do is drop your weapon. That's your only chance at survival.

Any thought of resistance was suicide.

Because he wasn't human. He was a demon returned from hell.

Scarface felt his heart stop, then start hammering wildly. Ice-cold blood surged through his limbs.

He tried to raise his hand, but his arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He tried to beg for mercy, but his throat was clamped shut by an invisible hand. No sound came out.

"How do you want to die?"

The voice wasn't loud, but it rang in his skull like a death knell.

I'm going to die.

No matter what.

Beg and die. Fight and die.

Extreme fear gave birth to extreme madness.

Scarface's mind went blank. Only one animal instinct remained—bite out his throat before he kills me.

"AHHH—!"

He let out a scream that didn't sound human—a sound filled with terror, despair, and hysterical insanity.

He yanked the pistol from his waist and emptied the magazine in Caesar's direction, squeezing the trigger over and over in a frenzy.

"Kill him! Open fire! FIRE!!" His command came out mixed with his own gunshots, chaotic and unhinged.

"Kill him!" Scarface shrieked like a cornered beast.

Over a dozen assault rifles roared to life. A storm of bullets wove into a net of fire, shredding the spot where Caesar had been standing into rubble.

"Cease fire!" Scarface barked.

Silence fell.

The hail of gunfire had carved a massive crater into the concrete floor, but Caesar's figure had vanished without a trace.

Scarface's gaze swept wildly around the warehouse. A bead of cold sweat slid down his temple.

"AHHH—!"

A scream. Then a sickening crunch.

Scarface whipped his head around. Caesar was now standing on the opposite end of the warehouse—no one had seen him move.

The entire warehouse fell deathly silent.

Caesar took one step forward.

A head dropped to the floor.

His footsteps became a metronome of death.

Each step harvested a life with surgical precision.