Outside the sprawling, derelict Ironworks complex, a black armored sedan screeched to a halt, its tires spitting gravel. Krevan Dosk emerged, a silhouette against the industrial smog, his dark coat billowing. Brix, trailing a step behind, adjusted the comms earpiece digging into his lobe. “Perimeter’s clear, Boss. For now. Just a few of Vilem’s low-tier goons guarding the main entrance. Barely worth the breath it’d take to—oh, wait, they’re gone. All of them. Already.” Krevan didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the rusted masonry. He could hear it now, a faint, high-pitched shriek buried beneath the grind of ancient machinery. Steam. He knew that sound. Knew it intimately from years spent silencing rival operations. That wasn't a boiler leak; it was an intentional rupture. “She’s in there,” Krevan rasped, his voice a low growl that vibrated with raw intent. Brix wiped his palms on his trousers, recognizing the rasp. He moved, a dark blur of motion, toward a side entrance. The heavy steel door, reinforced with thick crossbars, exploded inward with a single, precisely aimed kick. Metal shrieked, and the impact reverberated like a mortar shell through the hollow plant. Inside, a lone guard, startled by the sudden breach, fumbled for his sidearm. Krevan was already on him, a blur of controlled violence. A hand snapped out, seizing the man’s wrist, twisting it until the bone audibly cracked. The weapon clattered to the floor. Before the guard could even scream, Krevan’s other hand closed around his throat, lifting him clear off his feet. He slammed the man against a support beam, leaving him gasping, unconscious. No time for interrogation. Just eradication. “Boss, I’m seeing… movement on the third floor, Sector Gamma. Heavy resistance forming up,” Brix’s voice crackled through the comms. “Two squads, Boss. They’re converging on the central processing chamber. That’s probably where she is!” Krevan was already ascending a precarious metal staircase, taking three steps at a time. He burst into a catwalk overlooking a vast, grimy assembly line. Below, a dozen of Vilem’s men, armed with rusty pipe wrenches and crude shivs, scrambled into position. They weren’t the elite. Just desperate muscle. One, a hulking brute with a scarred face, lunged first, swinging a length of chain. Krevan ducked under the whistling arc, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw with a sickening thud. The brute staggered, then fell, his eyes rolling back. Krevan didn’t pause. He moved through the group like a ghost, a whirlwind of calculated strikes and bone-snapping precision. Each blow was delivered with a cold, ruthless efficiency, designed to incapacitate, to eliminate, to clear the path. He heard the roar of the steam before he saw the source. It poured from a ruptured pipe in a lower section of the plant, a scalding cloud that billowed upwards, obscuring the path. The air grew thick, humid, impossible to see through. Krevan didn't hesitate. He plunged into the whiteout, the heat immediately stinging his exposed skin. He held his breath, relying on muscle memory and the faint architectural echoes he’d studied from stolen blueprints. A figure loomed out of the haze, a massive man, easily a head taller than Krevan, holding a heavy-duty wrench like a club. This was Valerik, Vilem’s prime lieutenant. He swung, a wide, powerful arc meant to crush. Krevan sidestepped, the wrench whistling past his ear, the displaced air hot against his cheek. He aimed a swift kick at the brawler's knee, but the man braced, absorbing the impact with a grunt of defiance. The brute retaliated with a flurry of close-quarters blows, each one heavy enough to shatter bone. Krevan blocked, parried, his movements fluid and precise even through the blinding steam. A powerful uppercut from the lieutenant connected with Krevan’s chin, snapping his skull backward. He stumbled backward, momentarily disoriented, his vision blurring. He landed against a cold metal surface – a dormant conveyor belt. The man saw his chance. With a roar, he shoved Krevan, aiming to pin him against the belt, to drag him into the crushing gears. Krevan’s back hit the cold, ridged surface. He felt the grinding hum of the old machinery under his hand. Above him loomed a hydraulic stamp designed for shaping raw metal, its grease-slicked teeth hanging motionless. He couldn’t afford to be caught. His hand shot down, a motion so quick it was almost invisible, activating a hidden spring in his boot. A wicked, spring-loaded blade, sharpened to a razor’s edge, shot out. Without looking down, Krevan thrust his leg forward, the blade biting tendon just above the kneecap. A choked cry escaped the lieutenant's lips as the blade sank deep. He staggered back, clutching his bleeding leg, his face contorted in pain and disbelief. Krevan wasted no time. He surged forward, grabbing the henchman by his thick hair and slamming his head repeatedly against the metal frame of the conveyor belt until the man went limp. He dropped the body, already moving, driven by a singular, overwhelming need. The door to the holding room was just ahead, a thick, reinforced steel slab. The steam was less dense here, but the air still shimmered with oppressive heat. He could hear faint voices from within, muffled by the door. No screams. That was good. Maybe. He aimed another powerful kick, the metal groaning in protest, the latch giving way with a tortured shriek. The door flew inward, revealing a scene that momentarily froze Krevan in place. The room was a mess of splintered wood and twisted metal. Two of Vilem’s executioners lay crushed beneath a massive blast door, its hydraulic arms still groaning as it settled. Their machetes, dropped in their final moments, glinted dully on the floor. Standing amidst the carnage, her usually pristine clothes now smudged with grease and grime, was Tazia. She held a heavy, jury-rigged lever fashioned from a length of pipe, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. Sanna Tor, looking thoroughly battered and covered in soot, slumped against the wall, staring at the crushed bodies with fixed, blank horror. Tazia met Krevan’s gaze, unimpressed. Her hair, usually so carefully arranged, stood out in tangled tufts around her ears, and grease streaked both cheeks. “Took you long enough, Krevan,” Tazia said, her voice a little hoarse from the steam, but laced with her usual dry impatience. “This chair was horribly uncomfortable. And they were getting loud.” The scorched room smelled of oil and dead hydraulics, but her lazy slouch anchored him instantly. Just as he took a step towards her, Brix’s voice, frantic and distorted, blared through the comms. “Boss! Vilem just armed the building's demolition charges! We have three minutes!”

The Enforcer's Wrath