Page 267 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I flex my fingers around the grip of my Glock, steadying my breathing.

The countdown ticks in my head.

Three.

Two.

One.

Move.

The countdown ends—and the city erupts.

All across the map, six different points ignite at once—six doors blasted open, six teams moving fast and brutal.

A suburban home with a hidden basement.

A nail salon doubling as a front.

A condo floor nobody’s supposed to live on.

A strip club’s private back room.

A dusty old storefront that hasn’t filed a tax return in twenty years.

And us—at the docks, storming an abandoned warehouse that smells like mildew and gasoline.

I move first, leading the charge.

Flashbangs shatter the air. Bodies hit the ground.

Men screaming. Girls crying. Chaos exploding in every direction.

I move through it like a machine.

One runner tries to make a break for it—fast, stupid.

I hit him midstride, drive my knee into his spine, and he crumples like wet cardboard. Cuffed and left for the transport van.

We sweep the main floor, clear the corridors, drag out the monsters hiding behind false walls and rigged shelving.

It should feel like a win. It should feel like we’re choking the life out of their empire.

But it doesn’t. Something’s wrong.

The layout’s too perfect. Too clean.

Like they are making sure someone has time to get away. My gut tightens, and before I even think, I’m moving.

Down the far hall, I spot a door swinging on its hinges, rocking like a heartbeat.

I bolt, lungs burning, boots hammering the concrete.

Through the door. Into the alley. Just in time to catch the gleam of a black sedan tearing off into the night.

“Son of a bitch.”

I raise my weapon and fire.

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