Kavrik moved, a blur of motion, but the rogue guard was closer, his rifle already tracking the inert form on the bed. Vessia, a cold, empty ache in her chest, watched the muzzle flash. Her muscles dragged like lead under the venom's pull, yet she refused to lie still and wait for the bullet. Her gaze snapped to the nearest medical equipment. The defibrillator, its paddles resting on a charging dock, hummed softly. Vessia's hand whipped out, gripping the hard plastic casing of one paddle. The rogue lead registered the shift, his gaze narrowing. He squeezed the trigger. But Vessia was faster. With a guttural cry, she slammed the paddle’s surface against the charging port, then spun, bringing the live electrode directly into Borislav’s neck. Arcing current cracked through the air, discharging into the man's throat. He convulsed, his rifle firing wildly into the ceiling, the bullet tearing a jagged hole in the sound-dampening panels. His eyes rolled back, a gasp trapped in his throat, and he fell, a heavy, dead weight. Vessia didn't wait. Her other hand swept across the surgical tray beside her, closing around the cold, polished steel of a scalpel. The blade, keen and precise, felt like an extension of her own will. The next rogue guard, a burly man named Dragan, lunged, his short-barreled shotgun raised. She plunged the scalpel deep into his thigh, twisting the blade with practiced ease. Dragan shrieked, stumbling back, clutching his bleeding leg. His shotgun clattered to the floor. Pain burned her veins, but the familiar grit of an ambush cleared the venom's fog from her head. Kavrik surged forward. His features flattened into cold stone, devoid of calculation. He met the charge of the next rifleman head-on. Kavrik caught the man's forearm, snapping the radius cleanly inward before slamming the soldier's skull into the reinforced bulkhead. The guard crumpled to the floor, motionless. Another guard tried to flank him, raising a tactical knife. Kavrik moved with impossible speed, snatching the blade mid-swing. He reversed the grip and plunged it into the man’s sternum. Blood erupted, a dark geyser painting the pristine white tiles. Kavrik didn't flinch. He ripped the steel free, turning toward the remaining traitors. The clinic became an abattoir. Smears of red coated the white enamel cabinets and soaked the edges of nearby gurneys. Kavrik broke limbs and crushed windpipes with systematic precision, tearing through every man who stepped between him and the bed. Ilmar advanced past the shattered doorway. Three more guards lay dead across the ceramic tiles. Kavrik stood drenched in red spray, his knuckles split, staring solely at Vessia. The final two defectors lowered their carbines, the metal clattering onto the deck. “Secure the perimeter,” Ilmar barked, his voice rigid. He moved quickly, disarming the remaining few who were too terrified to resist. “Check for any more breaches.” Kavrik knelt beside Vessia, his monstrous facade stripped away, replaced by raw concern. His hand, still slick with gore, reached for hers, gently tracing the pulse at her wrist. “Vessia,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Are you hurt?” She shook her head, her breath shallow. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her exhausted and cold. Her gaze swept over the devastation, the bodies, the splatters of red on white. The precision, the timing. The fallen men were all seasoned syndicate veterans. The elite of the Vossen guard. This wasn’t a random betrayal. This was a diversion. “Kavrik,” she rasped, her voice thin. “This isn’t the main attack. This was a distraction.” His gaze hardened. “What are you saying?” “To draw you out,” Vessia continued, pushing herself up on her elbows, ignoring the throbbing pain. “To keep Ilmar busy. They knew you’d come for me. The main force… they’re going for Pavka.” Ilmar, who had just finished checking the clinic's outer door, spun around, his face paling. “The inner sanctum. The safe room.” Kavrik was already on his feet, his mind racing. “They wouldn’t have enough time to bypass all the security protocols without a major breach. And we heard nothing from the perimeter.” “They didn’t breach it from outside,” Vessia said, her eyes fixed on his. “They had an inside man. Someone who knew the codes, the blind spots. Someone who let them in.” Before Kavrik could react, the estate’s intercom system crackled to life, a low hum filling the blood-soaked room. Then, a voice, calm and unnervingly composed, cut through the silence. It was Pavka. “Brother Kavrik,” his voice echoed, devoid of panic. “I’ve locked myself in Armory Delta. It seems I have some rather persistent guests trapped in the corridor outside.”

Painted Red