James spun, reversed his grip, and drove the blade straight into the man's thigh. Not fatal—but painful and deadly enough to take him out of the dance.
"Tag. You're it."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Puchi!"
The dagger stabbed deep into the Butcher's thick thigh. A scream—raw and primal—erupted from the fat man as James yanked the blade free. The man was built like a walking meat locker. Layers of fat, slabs of muscle, and a tolerance for pain that made normal men look like weak children too afraid of a small needle. But a blade deep in the leg? That still stung..
Butcher reacted faster than expected for a man with a stab wound and a BMI that screamed "early heart attack." His cleaver—a rusted slab of iron with dried blood still crusted on the edge—swung out toward James's foot like a meat-seeking missile.
James jumped away. Not clean. Not pretty. But high enough for the blade to whooshed beneath his boot.
As he landed, he immediately went for his pistol.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He emptied the whole magazine into the Butcher, but the lunatic was still thrashing on the ground. Still alive. Still doing his best to block bullets with his Steel Honing Rod in one hand, and Cleaver in the other whilst lying down. Sparks flew as bullets pinged off the metal deflected. The man wasn't just tanking shots—he was fighting like a cornered animal, swinging with the rage of a wounded Boar.
"Ding, ding, ding!"
Three more shots—three more deflections.
James swore to the man's tenacity, dodging left and right, and re-aimed for the legs. "You fat bastard. Stay down!"
The next three rounds tore into the Butcher's shins and knees. That did it. He dropped the blade in agony and weakness, bellowing like a hog to the slaughter. James lunged forward, reloading mid-movement, slapped a fresh mag in with a satisfying click, and leveled the pistol at Butcher's skull.
"Bullets beat knives" he muttered.
Bang.
The shot echoed in the cold room, the Butcher collapsed dead. Not slowly. Not dramatically. Just—done.
A slab of meat hanging from the hooks fell hitting the tile, as everything goes quite for the next scene to arrive.
James exhaled. His breath misting in the cold air. The Butcher's slaughterhouse wasn't just metaphorical—it was literally freezing. Blood congealed fast here. Metal smelled of rust and guts.
That had been too close.
'Note to self: Never underestimate obese psychos with blades.'
Cortana's HUD pinged softly.
[Vitals stabilizing. Heart rate decreasing.]
He nodded slightly. "Yeah. Thanks, Cortana."
He reloaded again—muscle memory at this point—and pressed forward. The hallway ahead was narrow, flanked by metal lockers and cabinets. Dust danced in the light beams filtering through barred windows. On the far end, an arched double door led into the file room—his next target.
Carlos wouldn't be able to give cover here. Too many corners. Too many blindspots. But James didn't plan to die here, not after getting this far.
He moved through the hall, quiet but confident.
When he reached the door, he paused. No movement is heard, but something felt... staged. Like walking into a trap. He stepped forward, boot clicking on the floor, then froze two steps shy of the threshold.
"Sloan," he called out.
His voice was low, steady. No fear. Not anymore.
"You want to talk? Come out. I'm not stepping in. Rats just hide in the dark afraid of sunlight."
Footsteps echoed, calm and measured.
Sloan emerged from the shadows on the far end, sitting calmly in a chair like he was having a casual meet and chat, instead of being hunted by a pissed-off assassin.
"I don't know why you betrayed us—or your father," Sloan said evenly. "Did Cross give you something? Promise you power? Vengeance?"
James didn't blink. "Don't be stupid. I knew the person who died on the rooftop wasn't my father. You think after twenty years of being watched like a hawk, I wouldn't notice if the eyes on me disappeared? Don't forget—I feel people. That was never Cross. He's been with me all along."
Sloan's eyes narrowed.
James stepped closer and tossed something through the door—a crumpled cloth, bloodstained and worn.
No one looked at it. They didn't have to.
Because several figures were already stepping out from behind cover. Weapons raised. Fox among them.
Sloan stayed smug.
"You want proof?" he said, pulling out a folder like this was some courtroom drama. He handed a sheet to the Gunsmith.
"Your name," Sloan said.
Another to Fox. "And yours."
He moved in a slow circle, passing papers to each assassin as if James didn't have a loaded pistol pointed at his chest.
"If you think I'm breaking the rules," Sloan said, "you can go ahead. Put the gun in your mouth. Pull the trigger. See if fate cares."
James didn't flinch.
"You twisted the Loom," he said. "You went against fate first. Everyone else just followed orders. If anyone's name deserves to be on the cloth—it's yours."
"So what?" Sloan spat. "We have power. We can shape the world. Strength Is Justice."
James shook his head.
"Yes, it's a world where the strong prey on the weak. That's why you were afraid of my father, so you asked me to come here. Similarly, I know the rules of this world, so I chose to come here to be trained and ready."
"Then why don't you join us? If you join us, we will be even stronger."
"Because you don't understand that the world is changing. Look at how shabby this place is. Everything is so old. The Fraternity is already decaying. Otherwise, there wouldn't be guys like you. The mission of the Loom of Fate has been completed. The world needs a new order, so I'm here. Sloan, you don't have a chance."
"Haha, there are so many guns pointed at you. You are surrounded, what can you do?"
"Are you sure?" Wesley smiled, as his heart began to beat faster. He held the gun a little tighter in his hand again, as his eyes scanned the targets in front of him. Now there were three people who could attack him, and the rest were cross-aimed on both sides. He could hear their heartbeats.
He tensed.
Guns were pointed. The room was a powder keg. One spark, and everything would go to hell.
Sloan made the first move. "Time to choose, everyone. Kill yourselves... or kill him."
The Gunsmith hesitated. Looked at Fox. Then at Sloan.
James stirred.
The Gunsmith glanced at Sloan. "Of course I'm going to shoot this bastard." James moved out. He used his feet to kick the wooden doors shut behind him. With the sudden closing of the wooden doors. Inside was panic. Muzzles jerked. Triggers were pulled. A hailstorm of bullets filled the room—ripping into wood, shredding cover. The only exception was Fox.
James was already airborne. He jumped—legs kicking on the opposite cabinets, dangling like a ninja. Up and pressed flat against the roof beams just above the door. A trick he'd learned from Cross: always go up when the floor turns to lava.
The noise below was deafening. But he could hear it: click, click, click.
They were out of bullets.
Time for curtain call. He yanked two grenades from his belt. Popped the pins with practiced flicks. Then let them drop and roll through the wooden door's gap like coins into a vending machine.
[BOOM.] [BOOM.]
Screams followed.
Fire licked the cracks of the doors. Smoke curled up. Muffled cries. Some tried to crawl. Others tried to shoot again—too slow.
Then—a new sound. Not explosions. Not rifles.
The distinctive crack of an M1911.
James's eyes narrowed.
"Fox…"
He landed in a crouch, kicked open the smoldering door, and scanned the room.
The room was full of bodies. Blood pooling, smoke rising. Fox stood in the center, pistol raised—but not at the others.
At herself.
James stepped through the doorway, heart steady as a drumbeat as he stared at Fox eye to eye.