The clash between two powerful factions hungry for dominance exploded in a city that had long forgotten the taste of chaos. This wasn't a petty street fight or a dispute over territory. This was war, war born from years of resentment, bloodshed, and the pursuit of power through fear and revenge.
A scream tore through the silence of an old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. "Arrrrhhhh!" The sound echoed against rusted walls and cracked concrete, sharp and agonizing like a cry from hell itself. Inside, two heavily built men gripped a bloodied and broken figure by the arms. His body sagged between them, limp but alive. They held him firmly, ensuring no chance of escape or resistance.
In front of them stood another man, muscles tight with frustration, a baseball bat in his hand. The bat's surface was dotted with dried, dark red stains, blood long since soaked into the wood. Tattoos ran down his arms like maps of violence, each one telling a story of battles fought and lives taken. He looked every bit the street enforcer, a product of the underworld.
With a grunt, the tattooed thug dropped the bat, letting it fall to the ground with a metallic clang. He slammed a nearby table with his fist, knocking over a tray of tools, pliers, blades, and a rusty blowtorch. The instruments clattered like bones. The room reeked of sweat, metal, and blood.
"Damn it!" the thug barked. "This son of a bitch is tougher than he looks. If we don't get something outta him before the boss gets here, we're finished."
The man on the right, one of the ones holding the victim, shouted back, his voice laced with anger. "Hank, shut your mouth! All that time you're wasting talking, you could've been beating the answers out of him." He stomped over, picked up the bat, and pointed it threateningly at the bruised man on the ground. "You think you're a hard guy, huh? Think you're brave?" He chuckled. "Good. Let's see how brave you are when your skull's caved in before Morpheus shows up and tears us apart for failing."
With a snarl, he raised the bat high into the air, ready to bring it down.
At the same time, the night outside shifted.
Two sleek, matte black vehicles pulled up in front of the warehouse like shadows in motion. Their arrival was silent but purposeful. The darkness swallowed their shapes until the doors opened, revealing sharp-dressed men stepping out one by one. Their eyes were hidden behind dark shades, but the way they moved screamed danger. These men weren't simple guards, they were elite killers. Yet even they paled in comparison to the figure that stepped out next.
Morpheus.
The name alone inspired fear. A high-ranking lord of the underworld, his mere presence had made grown men abandon their gangs and flee cities. He stood tall, his steps precise, his presence suffocating. His cane, black with a skull-shaped handle, tapped softly against the concrete as he walked. A long scar ran from his left eye down his cheek. The eye itself glowed unnaturally red, casting light in the darkness like a cursed jewel. Rumors said he wasn't entirely human, and one glance at his left arm supported the claim. The limb was metallic, a cybernetic fusion of wires, steel, and power, covered only partially by a massive coat made from the hide of a tiger. No one knew how he'd killed the beast, but everyone believed he had.
As Morpheus exited the vehicle, his guards fell into formation around him. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The ground beneath him might as well have bowed. The only sound was the soft tap of his cane and the distant cries of the tortured man within the warehouse.
Inside, the three torturers froze.
Their hearts pounded as they heard the steady, ominous steps drawing closer. It was like hearing the footsteps of death itself. Each step that Morpheus took made their nerves scream louder. And then, the silence was broken.
"Have you gotten anything out of him yet?" Morpheus asked calmly, though his voice was cold as steel.
The thug holding the bat let it drop again, his hand trembling. "N-no, sir. This bastard," (he kicked the prisoner for emphasis)
(Note: brackets in speeches are meant to paint a vivid picture of what the subject is doing )
"hasn't said a word. He's either mute or playing us. But I swear, give us a few more minutes and we'll break him."
Morpheus walked in slowly, each step heavier than the last. He stopped in front of the man who had spoken, resting a hand on his shoulder. The gesture might have seemed friendly, but every man in the room knew the danger beneath it.
"Not a single word, huh?" Morpheus said, glancing down at the beaten man on the floor. "That's strange. I'd expect at least a whimper by now."
The guards chuckled from behind him. Their laughter was dry and cruel, the kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Though no one checked the thug's pants, they were almost certain he had pissed himself.
Morpheus studied the prisoner, noticing the swelling around his eyes, the deep cuts across his lips, and the bruises painting his arms and chest. Then something clicked. There was a spark in the man's expression. A grin was trying to form. It wasn't fear. It was satisfaction.
Morpheus narrowed his eyes and smirked. Morpheus was no coward, and he certainly wasn't dumb either. He knew this would happen. In fact, he wanted it to happen.
"This man isn't here to talk," he said, his voice low. "He's a decoy. A distraction."
The room fell completely silent.
Then the prisoner laughed, a chilling, deranged sound that sent a jolt through the air. The guards raised their weapons immediately, pointing them toward the shadows. From every dark corner of the warehouse, figures emerged like ghosts in the night. Dressed in black suits, hoods drawn, their eyes cold. Swords glinted in the faint light. Guns cocked quietly.
It was them.
The Mexicans.
Trained killers, martial artists, assassins. These weren't regular soldiers. These were specialists. They had been here the entire time, waiting.
The three gangsters who had tortured their bait panicked. They bolted for the exit.
"SWOOSH," a blade flashed through the air, and a head was separated from its body. The weapon landed with a heavy thud on the cement floor. The force of the throw was unnatural. The two others were snatched by veiny hands. Bones cracked audibly before they collapsed.
Only Morpheus remained calm. He smiled, his mechanical eye gleaming. The cloaked figure stepped forward, the leader. His presence announced itself before he spoke.
"Ballan," Morpheus said.
Ballan smirked. "So it's true. You're still breathing. I figured I'd find you buried in some alley by now. Guess I gave you less credit than you deserved. Even roaches die faster than you."
He scanned the guards. "And these are your new toys? Cute. What are you gonna do, hide behind them again?"
Before the sentence ended, the guards attacked. Bullets flew. Blades met flesh. The warehouse turned into a battlefield. Morpheus's men fought with skill, their bodies strengthened by willpower. But they were outnumbered. The enemy surrounded them. The sound of the blade digging through flesh, followed by cries, flowed in the space, and Morpheus's men fell to the ground. Dead.
Morpheus shed his coat, revealing steel and sinew. Hinting at muscles underneath. Ballan raised a brow.
"You really think you're strong enough to beat us?" he said, stepping forward. "Look at you. You're a freak. You should be begging me to put you down."
Morpheus placed a hand on his shoulder.
Shocking the whole room. Wasn't he afraid of death? "You followed me all the way from Mexico to settle this. If you'd stayed there and minded your business, none of this would be happening. But now, you're here. (Grinning like a freak) I'm not the man you left behind."
Steam hissed from his arm. His aura surged. Fifth-Stage Dormant Chi Cultivator. Ballan's eyes widened.
"No. You weren't even a fighter when you ran. How?"
Morpheus clenched Ballan's shoulder, his grip strong enough to crack a boulder.
Looking at the scene, they looked like siblings, one holding the other's shoulder and giving him advice. Then Morpheus's robotic arm began to smoke, like steam from a bull's nose. He released the aura of a level five Dormant chi cultivator. Ballan, who was also at the fifth level of the Dormant stage, was shocked. His face paled. Morpheus wasn't even a fighter when he escaped from Mexico and joined the Blood sect. So how?
Morpheus's right arm clenched harder on Ballan's shoulder with the grip strength to crush a boulder. He sighed and bent his head. "You should have stayed behind, you all shouldn't have gotten this close." Ballan wanted to say something but Morpheus was already firing a punch. His metallic hand glowed with willpower. With the force of a sledgehammer, Morpheus's fists crashed into Ballan's stomach; the force in that punch was enough to send him flying. But, Morpheus's hand was still clasped on his shoulder, keeping him in place. However, his feet were jolted in the air. Before a second could even pass, another punch landed on Ballan's face. Sending him flying, his body broke through the formation his men had made around Morpheus. And before Ballan even landed on the wall. Morpheus was already moving to his guards.
One by one, they fell.
Ballan coughed blood, watching the carnage.
"P-P-PING," bullets hit Morpheus. He turned his robotic side to the shots. They bounced off. The cybernetic plating held strong.
"His body can block gunshots!" Ballan shouted in surprise.
However Ballan's men couldn't block bullets, so when Morpheus grabbed a gun. It was over for them.
He ran. A blur followed. A fist connected.
Ballan was airborne again, crashing through crates.
Morpheus approached, towering over him. "What did....di..did (struggling to stand) you give up for this power?"
"What did the Blood sect do to you?"
Ballan asked.
Morpheus laughed. "Give up? I gained everything. But You? I almost feel sorry for you. Everything you've ever done, everyone you've hurt, helped, all the power you gained, it all ends today."
He raised Ballan by the neck. "Because today, a curse fell on your life. The curse of crossing paths with me. Hmmm.. Revenge is best served steaming hot." (Laughing like a third-rate Villain.)