His hand snapped to the bow on his back. Arrows flew—clean, silent, merciless.
One by one, the gunmen collapsed. Throats pierced. Eyes blown out.
No second chances. No missed shots.
By the time the others turned to scream, Luck already leapt from the wall.
His boots slammed into the pavement. Sword drawn mid-fall.
They tried to raise their own weapons, to fight back—but they were too slow.
He slipped between them like smoke through cracks, cutting through skulls and necks .
To him, they were no different from the infected.
One dropped. Then another. Then three more, heads splitting open like ripe fruit.
Only the woman remained. She yanked her gun, desperate—but too late.
Luck's blade flashed.
thud!
Her wrist hit the ground before the rest of her understood what happened.
She didn't even scream right away. Just stared at the stump, shaking.
In that moment, it felt like she was staring death in the face. No—not death. The man smiling in front of her was worse.
