Nolan moved then, exiting the bedroom, his bloodproof suit a second skin of shadows against the dimly lit hallway. The low hum of the curse began to shift, to a low, quiet thrum of satisfaction.
The relative quiet of the private lounge downstairs was abruptly shattered by a clamor from the outer room – shouts, the scraping of chairs, and the unmistakable click-clack of safeties being disengaged. Footsteps pounded, growing closer. Nolan's head snapped up, his masked gaze already pinpointing the approaching threats. Twenty men. All guns drawn.
He melted back into the shadows of the doorway connecting the private lounge to the main party area. The first two bodyguards burst in, weapons raised, their faces contorted in a mixture of aggression and shock as their eyes fell upon the horrific scene: their young boss, a mangled, broken doll on the expensive rug.
Nolan recognized them instantly. These were the two burly, indifferent men who had stood by that morning, their gazes vacant as stone, as the young bastard kicked the old man. Their indifference had been as brutal as the kicks themselves.
The curse surged, a cold, precise rage that mirrored his own. These two were already marked. Before either could even begin to comprehend the speed with which he moved, Nolan was on them.
There was no sound from his approach, no wasted motion. His first strike was a blur, a gloved fist driving into the sternum of the man on the left. The impact was sickening, a wet, explosive crunch as ribs shattered inwards, puncturing organs. The bodyguard's eyes bulged, a raw, choking gasp dying in his throat as Nolan's hand followed, twisting the man's head with a savage, effortless rotation that tore the neck from its base. The body crumpled, a lifeless sack.
The second bodyguard, frozen for a split second by the horrifying speed and brutality of the first kill, barely managed to twitch his finger on the trigger. His shot went wide, burying itself harmlessly in the ceiling. Nolan was already there, a dark phantom. His hand clamped around the man's face, fingers digging into the flesh. With a terrifyingly casual exertion of force, Nolan squeezed. The skull didn't just crack; it compressed, imploding with a wet, grotesque squelch as blood and bone fragments exploded outward. The body dropped, a broken doll, its head a pulped, unrecognizable mess.
Nolan stood over the two latest victims, his mask unreadable. These weren't part of the "three lives" demand; these were Nolan's own, a chilling extra step of his twisted justice. The silent, expanding emptiness within him seemed to solidify, a cold, hard core of resolve.
The remaining eighteen bodyguards, a wall of armed men, surged forward, their faces a mix of horror and primal fury at the sight of their comrades. A volley of gunfire erupted, tearing through the air where Nolan had just been. But he was already gone, a shadow swallowed by shadows.
He was a whirlwind of dark motion, moving with a speed that left afterimages in the air. The gunshots became wild, desperate flurries as the bodyguards found themselves striking nothing but empty space. Nolan didn't engage them with the raw, limb-tearing force he'd used moments ago; he was holding back, demonstrating a terrifying, surgical precision.
A bodyguard in the front rank screamed as a black blur flickered past him. His leg twisted, snapped outwards at an impossible, sickening angle, the bone audibly shattering. He crumpled, weapon clattering to the floor. Before his cry could fully echo, Nolan was already upon the next. A precise, brutal kick to the knee. Another crack. Another man went down, writhing.
He moved through them like a reaper through wheat. Each lunge, each strike, was aimed low, delivered with just enough force to pulverize bone without immediately killing. Limbs buckled. Kneecaps exploded. Femurs splintered. The sound of snapping bone became a sickening percussion in the room, a grotesque rhythm accompanying the bodyguards' terrified shouts and desperate, ineffectual gunfire.
They tried to target him, to corner him, but he was too fast, too fluid. He weaved between them, a dark phantom inflicting precise, debilitating agony. A man tried to swing his rifle; Nolan was already behind him, a knee driving into the back of his leg, forcing it to hyper-extend and break with a wet, tearing sound. Another bodyguard turned, firing wildly, only to have his leg shatter beneath him in a sickening crunch, sending him tumbling.
In less than ten seconds, the room transformed from a den of armed men into a groaning, sprawling heap of broken bodies. Eighteen men lay screaming, their legs twisted into mangled, impossible shapes, their guns scattered across the floor. None were dead, but all were utterly incapacitated, their cries of pain echoing in the suddenly silent lounge, a chorus of agony.
Nolan stood amidst them, his mask unreadable, the curse a low, satisfied hum in his skull. He hadn't killed them, but he had inflicted a punishment perhaps more profound for men who relied on their physical presence. His own chosen vengeance was fulfilled. The main party in the outer section of Building 7, oblivious to the carnage that had just unfolded, continued its muffled revelry.
Nolan stood amidst the cacophony of groans and whimpers, the scene in the lounge a testament to his brutal efficiency. The curse, a low, satisfied hum in his skull, had fulfilled its demand for the "three lives" of the family, and Nolan had exacted his own vengeance on the bodyguards. The job was done.
He ignored the pleas and agonized sounds, his gaze sweeping the luxurious, yet now blood-splattered, lounge. He needed to be gone. He needed to be clean. With an almost casual indifference to the chaos around him, Nolan found a discreet door tucked away behind a large, decorative plant. It led to a lavish master bathroom, a stark contrast to the destruction just outside.
Inside, the bathroom was pristine, gleaming white marble and polished chrome. Nolan walked to the expansive shower, its glass doors sparkling. He stood for a moment, simply breathing, the air still thick with the metallic tang of the recent violence, but here, it was faint, diluted by expensive toiletries.
With deliberate, unhurried movements, Nolan began to take off his bloodproof suit. The black fabric, designed to absorb light and resist stains, was remarkably clean on the outside, a testament to its effectiveness and his terrifying speed. He folded it carefully, then removed the menacing mask, placing it gently on the pristine counter. His own face, gaunt and etched with a deep weariness, stared back at him from the mirror, a haunted reflection.
He stepped into the shower, the initial spray of cold water a sharp, welcome shock against his skin. He closed his eyes, letting the water run over him, washing away the grime and the lingering scent of death. He scrubbed, desperately hoping to cleanse himself of the night's horrors, but he knew it was futile. The terror he had inflicted, the screams of the dying, the visions of Lily's tormented face—these were stains the water could never reach.
He leaned his head against the cool tiles, the desire for rest a profound, aching void within him. He closed his eyes, wishing for the impossible oblivion of sleep, a moment of peace. But the curse hummed, a constant, low vibration in his bones, a chilling reminder of its hold. He never got tired. He never needed to sleep. He never needed to eat. The curse had stripped him of these fundamental human needs, transforming him into a relentless instrument of its will. The concept of rest was a cruel, distant memory.
He reached for the soap, a solid bar, and scrubbed his skin, focusing on the slick feel, the faint scent. He didn't use shampoo; his hair was short, functional, and held no trace of the blood. Even through the sounds of the running water and the thick walls of the lavish bathroom, Nolan absolutely heard the screams of the bodyguards. Their agony was a relentless, high-pitched symphony, a chorus of broken men echoing the wet snaps and sickening crunches he himself had inflicted. The sound wormed its way into his mind, mixing with Lily's phantom cries, a constant, agonizing reminder of the chaos he had wrought.
His hands stilled, soap dripping onto the marble. The hum of the curse deepened, not just a vibration now, but a resonant whisper, a cold, insidious voice that was slowly becoming his own thoughts. His mind was being overridden. He felt a profound, chilling urge, a terrible hunger to inflict more. Not just the corrupt, not just the criminals who harmed children, but...more.
A horrifying realization dawned, cold as the water sluicing over him. The curse wanted more. He felt a burgeoning, undeniable desire to rage, to obliterate, to kill thousands of soldiers, to utterly massacre them with the same brutal efficiency he'd used tonight. He saw visions of himself tearing through formations, tanks exploding, bodies being reduced to dust. The thought was terrifying, yet unsettlingly compelling. The hunger was growing, transforming him from a reluctant executioner into something far, far worse.
A guttural, raw scream tore from Nolan's throat, ripping through the relative quiet of the bathroom, momentarily drowning out the distant wails of the bodyguards. He pressed his head harder against the cold tiles, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists, shaking with a furious despair. This was absolutely not the right thing to think and do. This wasn't justice; this was unadulterated evil. He was fighting himself, fighting the curse, a battle for his very soul in the depths of that luxurious shower.
"Fuck," Nolan rasped, the single word torn from his raw throat, a desperate, impotent curse against the monstrous fate that was slowly claiming him. It was a lament, a defiance, and a terrifying admission of the battle he knew he was losing.
For some reason, he stayed there for hours, long after the water had turned cold, long after the soap had dissolved into nothing. The constant spray was a futile attempt to cleanse a soul already stained, a desperate counterpoint to the raging battle within his mind. The distant, agonized screams of the bodyguards, now a monotonous chorus of suffering, reached him even here. He listened to them, a grim, tactical part of his brain calculating their helplessness. Their legs were utterly broken; he knew they couldn't call for help, couldn't escape, couldn't even reach a phone. They were trapped, left to their pain, and Nolan was content to let them linger in the consequence of their indifference.
But even with the immediate threat neutralized and his victims suffering, there was no peace. The curse hummed, a persistent, chilling vibration in his bones, a constant reminder of its dominion. The visions of Lily's tormented face flickered relentlessly behind his eyelids, each silent scream a fresh twist of the knife in his gut. He was tired, a profound exhaustion that transcended the need for sleep, a bone-deep weariness of existence itself. The hours crawled by, marked only by the shifting light through the frosted window and the unceasing hum of the beast within. He remained there, a silent, masked sentinel in a pristine bathroom, a monument to the horrors he had committed and the greater horrors he now craved.
After what felt like an eternity, Nolan eventually pushed away from the tiles, the profound weariness in his bones settling deeper. There was no true cleansing here, no escape from the monster that stirred within him.
With practiced, almost ritualistic movements, he toweled off, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the hardened resolve in his gaze. He retrieved the bloodproof suit from where he'd folded it and meticulously put it back on. The sleek, dark material felt like a second skin, efficient and chillingly familiar. He then lifted the menacing mask from the counter, its angular, anonymous face settling over his own, obscuring the raw despair in his eyes. He was the hunter again, or perhaps, the hunted.
He stepped out of the bathroom, the relative quiet of the inner suite a stark relief after the internal din. He moved through the now silent mansion, past the lounge where the broken bodyguards lay moaning, their forms indistinct in the dim light. Nolan paid them no mind; his focus was already on the outside.
He exited Building 7, stepping out into the cool night air of the industrial park. The distant hum of the bustling city was a muted backdrop, a lullaby to a world oblivious to the horror he had just wrought. The moon hung high, casting long, distorted shadows among the derelict warehouses.
But the moment he was under the open sky, the relative peace was shattered. The hallucinations came back again, sharper, more vivid than before. Lily's face, contorted in agony, flashed before his eyes, her small hands reaching, bloodied and desperate. He saw Marcus, battered and broken, his face a mask of terror. And then, the landscape around him twisted, briefly morphing into a desolate, war-torn ruin, littered with the corpses of children.
Just as quickly as the visions came, a new, insidious whisper slithered into his mind, cold and precise, resonating with the hum of the curse: "Kill three more people."
The demand was absolute, a fresh torment. The monster within was insatiable.