Even though their location was already known, it still took an entire day. That’s why, on the third day, at 4:03 a.m., everything was ready.

  "Trucks?"

  "Ready," confirmed the general.

  "How many men?"

  "Two hundred and six."

  "That’s enough. Is the squad ready?"

  "Yes."

  Candado inhaled deeply, then exhaled.

  "Move them."

  Inside the facility

  A middle-aged, overweight man walked down the hallway after leaving the restroom.

  "Oliver."

  "Hey," the fat man greeted casually.

  "I need to pass. May I?"

  "Of course. By the way, I wanted to tell you your advice really helped."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah. My son loved that birthday cake... I can’t forget his smile."

  The guard opened the door.

  "I told you, sweet things fix everything, hehe. Anyway, enjoy your day."

  The man stepped into the booth, sat down… and never got up again. A sharp blade had slit his throat. A figure approached, searched the guard, took the keys, and then took his form.

  "Oliver?"

  The second guard walked in.

  "I heard noises. You okay?"

  "Yeah. I fell," said his killer, mimicking his voice perfectly.

  "Heh, you really need to lose weight, man."

  "Joker."

  "Think about it, it’s gonna be a long day."

  "Yeah, I will."

  The guard turned around.

  "Anyway, it’s time to— AAH!"

  A dagger pierced his temple as the supposed "fat man" covered his mouth. Death came almost instantly.

  The figure shifted again: the chubby appearance vanished, replaced by the silhouette of a woman wearing a black mask.

  "I'm in," she said through the radio.

  "Great. Now open the doors… let the party begin."

  She entered the control room, used the guard’s keys, and released the outer gates.

  The trucks began to roll in, followed by two vans. In one of them rode Candado. As soon as he stepped out to inspect, his view was blocked by the hands of the masked woman.

  "You know what? I’m starting to hate when people do this to me."

  "Sorry, it’s for your own good."

  "I may not see, but I can still smell the blood of those two corpses."

  She pinched his nose with her fingers.

  "Hey! Ow, ow, okay… I get it! I’ll go back to the van!"

  Three minutes later

  From the van’s window, Candado handed over the map with his head down.

  "This is stupid."

  The woman took the map and headed toward one of the trucks.

  "Everything alright?"

  "Yes, all good, General," Candado replied.

  "May I ask you something?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Who are they?"

  "You don’t know them? What an irresponsible general."

  "I took command six years ago. I’m afraid I don’t, but this ‘squad’ came highly recommended."

  "They call themselves ‘The Hunters.’ A group of thirteen people who hate agents. They’ve worked on situations like this before."

  "Wow… and what will they do now?"

  Candado gave a slight smile.

  "You know, General. A cleanup."

  He pulled out a map and continued studying it.

  Meanwhile

  Inside the central building

  An elevator climbed slowly through the core of the complex, accompanied by the soft hum of electric machinery and the faint tapping of internal cables. The numbers on the panel counted down one by one: 10… 9… 8… marking an inevitable destination. Each number lit up, then vanished like a countdown to something no one in the halls could predict.

  Outside, everything seemed in perfect harmony. The marble floors gleamed under the ceiling’s white lights, with not a speck of dust daring to settle. Scientists in spotless lab coats walked with tablets in hand, absorbed in their analysis, exchanging observations in calm, polite voices. Security guards in navy blue uniforms chatted about trivial matters: a game from last night, a missed lunch, a canceled date. Executives in designer suits walked confidently among them, perfumed and self-assured, as if the world belonged to them.

  Soft laughter. The clinking of coffee cups. Coordinated footsteps. Life in that hallway was a caress of routine and order—a symphony of the everyday. No one looked toward the elevator. No one imagined anything unusual could come from there. It was just another Monday, promising reports, data, decisions… and reheated coffee.

  The panel lit up “1”.

  A soft chime preceded the doors opening.

  In front of the elevator stood a young woman with glasses, waiting with a pleasant smile. Her expression was that of someone who had no idea what fate stared back at her from inside.

  Seven figures stood within.

  Six of them wore completely black flame-resistant suits—no logos, no insignias, no names. Their faces were hidden behind opaque visors, moving like restrained shadows. At their center, towering like a titan among specters, was a larger figure dressed in a blue-and-red flame suit, wearing a dark gas mask that obscured his face. The girl barely reached his chest.

  Silence fell for an instant.

  One heartbeat.

  Two.

  The man slowly pulled a revolver from his pocket. He did it with a cruel slowness, as if time belonged to him. He aimed at the girl’s forehead. She had no time to react. She didn’t scream. She didn’t understand. She only saw the dark, cold barrel.

  The shot echoed like an explosion in a cathedral.

  The bullet pierced her forehead. Her smile died before her body did. She collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood surged out, warm and alive, painting the white marble with a spreading red stain like an unholy tongue.

  The hallway went silent. Conversations stopped. Cups fell. Some froze in place. Others began to scream.

  The masked man didn’t even flinch.

  "Red… you fucking bastard," muttered a voice behind him—half amused, half annoyed.

  Then the roar of war shattered the veil of calm.

  "GO NOW! START THE CLEANUP!"

  Five of the six stepped out of the elevator wielding flamethrowers. The moment they set foot in the hallway, they reduced it to ashes. Chaos exploded.

  Men, women, and the elderly were incinerated without distinction. Some dropped to their knees, crying, begging for their lives. No one listened.

  "Red… I was supposed to make the entrance. How many times have we talked about this? Always…"

  The man called Red calmly holstered his revolver. Slowly, he pulled out his flamethrower.

  "You know… it was just like that time in Uruguay, when…"

  He paused. To his left, a closed office door caught his eye.

  "You see… having a reputation comes with a great—"

  Red walked toward the door, not looking back.

  "Hey, don’t ignore me! I’m not done with you yet!"

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  A person, ablaze from the leg to the torso, dragged themselves desperately beside him.

  "Gross. An agent burning near my new shoes…"

  Red drew his pistol and fired six times. Each shot sounded like contempt.

  "Ugh… nasty feeling."

  He walked on, unfazed by the chaos, by the screams, by the smell of burning flesh. Even when a guard lunged at him from the side with a blade, Red reacted without a sound: he turned, aimed, and a blast of fire consumed the attacker’s face. The man ran a few steps—aimlessly—before collapsing.

  Red reached the office, lifted a leg, and kicked the door into splinters. Inside, a woman huddled in a corner, clutching a rosary with all her strength.

  He scanned the room. On the desk, a framed photo: the woman, younger, embracing a girl no older than six.

  "Please…" she whispered.

  Red turned toward her. She looked into the dark holes of his mask, searching for a sliver of humanity.

  "I have a daughter… she’s alone at home. I just want to see her again…"

  Red picked up the frame, studied it for a moment, and handed it to her. She took it, sobbing.

  "Thank you… thank you…"

  He raised the flamethrower.

  "Wait… what are you—"

  He fired.

  The woman screamed. She tried to flee, but Red crushed her back with his boot. He kept burning her for three minutes, until her torso turned to ash.

  "Red! You sick freak! Hey, Red, we still need to talk abou—"

  Red grabbed him by the collar and yanked him aside—just in time to dodge a bullet that whizzed past.

  "God… that was close."

  Red drew his axe. With a swift motion, he hurled it down the hallway. The blade crushed a hidden guard’s skull. Then he calmly walked over, pulled the weapon from the bloodied head, took a cloth from his pocket, and began to clean it.

  "You’re a clown, Red."

  Parking Garage

  “Red and Keller are upstairs,” a voice reported.

  “I noticed,” Candado replied, lowering the volume on the headphones in his ears. He turned to look at the woman sitting in the front passenger seat. “Excuse me… Leandro’s Mother.”

  “Yes?”

  “This… how does this help the operation? There’s a lot of chaos up there.”

  “Don’t worry, Friend of my Son. Everything is under control. Better to conserve your energy. I’ll make room for you when the time comes.”

  “Fine... Just... make it quick.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  Candado sighed.

  “Abel, ázack… do you copy?” asked Leandro’s Mother.

  Laboratories

  A redhead with a dark beret adjusted the magazine of his rifle. ázack. Next to him stood a woman in a white shirt, bow tie, dark suspenders, and purple hair. Abel. Soldier. Medic.

  “Loud and clear,” Abel responded over the radio.

  “Great. Are you ready?”

  “All set,” she said, giving a thumbs-up.

  “Alright. I’m opening the door.”

  ázack ended the transmission, chambered a round, and aimed his weapon. It was just the two of them.

  The door slid open with a screech. Inside, a dozen people worked frantically. At the back, three children—one already dead, mutilated on a stretcher.

  A doctor pulled a gun from beneath the table and fired at Abel. The shot ricocheted and struck him instead.

  “Always the same…” Abel rubbed her forehead. “They never think.”

  “A spotlight!” a doctor yelled. “Quick, a mirror!”

  ázack shot him in the head.

  “None of you are leaving here alive.”

  Office Floor

  The destruction was absolute. Four figures rampaged through the chaos.

  Lázaro Gómez, able to cause explosions with any object, blew apart desks, equipment, and people alike. Jorge, a muscular man over two meters tall, thick-bearded, fully armored, charged through everything with brutal force. León, wearing a hat and trench coat, face hidden, fired his Winchester .38 with surgical precision.

  At the center of it all, Emma sat on the floor, channeling the building’s electricity to locate the targets they had to rescue.

  “They’re downstairs,” she said, eyes fixed on the data.

  “More?” Jorge growled. “Emma, come on…”

  “It’s not my fault, Jorge. Blame the architects.”

  A wounded guard raised his hand, pleading. Jorge shot him between the eyes without hesitation.

  “Shameless bastard.”

  “Are you done with your tantrum?” Lázaro quipped.

  “Don’t bother me, Lázaro.”

  “This is Wong. Emma?” came a voice over the comms.

  Break Room

  “What’s up, sweetheart?”

  “I found them. They’re right below you.”

  “Oh…” Wong glanced around. “I think I saw an elevator.”

  “Perfect. Head there. Red and Keller should be nearby… I hope.”

  “Copy that. I’m out.”

  Wong ended the call. He stood silently for a few seconds.

  “…You know, I’ve seen horrible things. I lived through a war… no, a massacre.”

  He walked among corpses. At least twenty people lay dead, the floor drenched in fresh blood.

  “When Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus, he hanged himself,” Wong said casually. “And you know what else? They say there was a storm. Funny thing is, I never saw that part in the Bible.”

  He sat on a stained desk, grabbed a soda can, and watched the spectacle with indifference.

  “So it happened… huh? Now tell me.”

  In front of him, a man trembled. Yet he spoke to him like a friend, in a nearly extinct Argentinian accent—the slang of the arrabal.

  “Look me in the eyes when I talk to you, jackass! If you wanna shake, shake... but don’t look at her, and don’t look at the floor either. You’ll make me jealous, man.”

  The break room was barely lit. Just enough for his eyes to gleam in the darkness.

  “Conwell,” Wong whispered.

  That’s right. Jauro Conwell, also known as the demon with red eyes. He wore clothes straight from the 1920s: elegant, immaculate. His smile was as unsettling as the crimson light beaming from his eyes.

  “Darling,” Conwell said without turning around, “don’t interrupt our conversation.”

  “He’s… already dead,” Wong replied.

  Conwell looked at the body in front of him.

  “Oh, right! That blank look… And here I was thinking he’d fallen in love with the floor.”

  He sighed in annoyance. Then, without any drama, he pulled the axe from his own abdomen and stood up.

  “I’m hungry. Let’s finish off the rest and get going.”

  “Emma called. The hostages are downstairs.”

  “Perfect. Five more dead, and we go down.”

  “Conwell… you literally killed everyone in this room. Do you still think there’s anyone left?”

  “Like I said—five. Two men over there, that guy pretending to be a corpse, and those two women.”

  Wong drew his weapon and fired. One shot for the impostor, and two more through the wall, hitting the others in hiding.

  “Ready?”

  “Those were mine, darling!”

  “They didn’t have your name on them.”

  “I’ll settle for her,” Conwell said, walking toward the cubicle where the two women were hiding.

  They trembled as he approached.

  “Please,” one of them begged. “I’m pregnant… don’t hurt us.”

  Conwell beheaded her without hesitation.

  “Another lie. I swear, they really need to get creative. Next.”

  The other woman covered her head. Conwell raised his axe—but paused.

  “How is this possible?”

  He dropped the weapon, stunned.

  “Artemisa… what a pleasant surprise.”

  He crouched down, inspecting her from head to toe.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Of course. I promised your mother I’d protect you.”

  “My mother died years ago.”

  “I know. I killed her,” Conwell said casually. “But she made a deal with me—her life in exchange for yours.”

  The young woman’s face changed. Fear gave way to rage.

  “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

  She lunged at him, wrapping her hands around his neck. Wong nearly intervened.

  “No, no, no. I’ve got it all under control,” Conwell said as he grabbed her firmly. Then, with a single punch to the cheek, he knocked her out cold. “Whew… what a wildcat. Call Bretanny. Tell her I’ve got a prisoner.”

  Wong frowned with disgust, but obeyed, activating the radio.

  One minute later…

  “When you made that promise, I thought you were lying,” Wong said.

  “I lie a lot, Wong. Don’t be na?ve.”

  “But this… what is this?”

  “A promise. And I never break a promise.”

  Wong sighed.

  “I’ll say there were no survivors.”

  “You’re a sweetheart. Small world, isn’t it?”

  Lower Floor

  The elevator had been repaired exclusively for them: Ron Ezequiel Anuel and Lisa de Santa Rita.

  Lisa possessed the ability to create objects and imbue them with life. Ron, on the other hand, was a master swordsman.

  Lisa, her complexion as pale as someone who had lived through a perpetual winter, wore overalls with red suspenders and a yellow cap adorned with a triangle. Thick glasses perched on her nose, and a scar marked her forehead.

  Ron donned an orange suit with a black tie. His dark skin contrasted with the katana resting on his back.

  "I need a bird," Lisa requested.

  Ron sliced through a metallic trash can.

  "Here are your materials."

  Lisa assembled a metallic dove, filled it with explosives, and activated it.

  "Fly towards victory."

  The bird, a symbol of peace, transformed into a deadly weapon. It carried not carnations, but shrapnel. Upon detonation, it obliterated everything. No one survived.

  "Seems they were hiding here," Ron remarked with a smile.

  A figure emerged from the debris, wielding a weapon. They were at the perfect distance to shoot and kill both. But luck was not on their side.

  Ron was already there. Only a second had passed, a blink. And he was behind them.

  In a calm voice, he said:

  "You're trash, agent."

  He then proceeded to pierce them with his blade.

  "Lisa, we'd better hurry. Open the hatches to descend."

  "Right away."

  "ázack, this is Ron. Everything is ready."

  "Received. We're descending shortly."

  Break Room

  Meanwhile, Red and Keller had reached the elevators leading to that area.

  "Damn... go ahead. I forgot to loot the pockets of those we killed," Keller said, turning around.

  "..."

  "What? I can sell what I find and maximize profits."

  Red grabbed his head and pushed him aside, just in time to dodge a bullet that whizzed past them. A guard was still breathing.

  "Shit!"

  Red pushed Keller behind him and hurled his axe with force. The blade embedded brutally into the attacker's chest.

  "For God's sake, Red!" Keller exclaimed, horrified by the scene.

  Red ignored him. He approached the dying guard.

  "Monsters..." the man murmured, choking on his blood.

  Red took his revolver and shot him in the throat without flinching. He then calmly retrieved his axe.

  "Red, you're cruel," Keller mocked.

  Red approached Keller and patted him down.

  "I'm fine," Keller said, though Red noticed the blood oozing from his right leg. He touched it with his index finger.

  "Ow!" Keller shouted.

  Red stared him straight in the eyes.

  "What?!"

  Red pointed to the exit door.

  "Oh no. Absolutely not."

  Red continued pointing.

  "...Fine," Keller conceded, limping towards the exit.

  Red sheathed his axe on his back and resumed his path.

  "Hey," Keller called.

  Red turned.

  "Be careful, okay?"

  Red silently gave a thumbs-up and continued on.

  "You're insane, Masked One..." Keller murmured with a sigh.

  Parking Lot

  "So... everything's clear, right?" Candado asked.

  "That's right."

  "Good."

  Candado smiled, and Bretanny returned the smile.

  "So then..."

  "No."

  "..."

  "You can't do that either."

  "Well... that was terrifying."

  At that moment, the door swung open.

  “Bretanny, we need you.”

  “All right,” she replied. Then she turned to Candado. “Now I want you to st—”

  But Candado was no longer in his seat.

  Bretanny glanced around and noticed the ceiling hatch was open.

  “This is not good,” she sighed.

  Candado was already running toward the elevator, but he didn’t have time to wait for it to descend. He opened the emergency hatch above and began sliding rapidly down the maintenance stairs.

  When he reached the office floor, he was met with a harrowing sight: the bodies of scientists and security officers strewn across the ground.

  “This place is disgusting,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Good thing I memorized the map. Hammya’s way below here—I have to find her.”

  A hand emerged from beneath the bodies and grabbed his leg.

  “P-please... help me...”

  “No.”

  He yanked his leg free and continued walking.

  “Begging for help. Stupid agents,” he muttered with disdain.

  He was stopped more than four times by other survivors. To all of them, he gave similar answers:

  “I’m busy.”

  “Maybe on the way back.”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Go bother someone else.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Until the fifth person grabbed his arm.

  “STOP TOUCHING ME! I SAID NO! I’M NOT GOING TO HELP YOU! DO YOU REALLY THINK I GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR MISERABLE LIVES?!”

  Fuming, Candado stormed forward, trampling over corpses.

  “Stupid bits of racist, pigmented science filth...”

  He stopped in front of the elevator.

  “Let’s try this one.”

  Basement

  Hammya had been brutally beaten. Blood streamed from her nose, and though her eyes were filled with tears, she refused to look away from her aggressor.

  “Mr. Sid,” said one of the guards, “it appears the entire staff has been wiped out.”

  “How is it possible,” Sid growled, “that with all the technology we have, this could happen?”

  “We can’t stay much longer, sir.”

  Sid turned his gaze to the girl lying on the floor.

  “We could get out... if I took you with me.”

  Dimitra quickly stepped between him and Hammya.

  “Take me instead,” she said firmly.

  Sid offered a cynical smile.

  “How brave.”

  Dimitra let out a breath of relief. But that moment of respite turned into horror when Sid snatched a weapon from one of the guards and shot her point-blank in the chest without hesitation.

  “NOOOOO!” Toledo screamed.

  Hammya froze. Fear and trauma gripped her entire body, paralyzing her.

  Dimitra collapsed to the floor, still conscious but bleeding fast. Toledo knelt beside her, holding her desperately.

  “Professor... please...” Dimitra whispered, her voice fading.

  “No, no, no... please, don’t...” Hammya babbled, unable to move.

  “Guard,” Sid ordered.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Plan the escape route.”

  “Right away.”

  Sid leaned down and grabbed Hammya roughly by the neck. He dragged her mercilessly. Powerless, she could only look back. She saw Miss Toledo cradling Dimitra’s lifeless body. She didn’t scream, didn’t resist. She couldn’t. Her will had vanished, as if someone had extinguished it.

  And then, everything stopped.

  Literally.

  Time shattered into a thousand fragments. Sound vanished. The air itself hung suspended. Hammya blinked, confused. She waited. Seconds. Minutes. She wasn’t about to wait hours.

  She slipped easily out of Sid’s frozen grip and ran to Dimitra’s body. Everything around her looked like stone—motionless figures trapped in an eternal instant.

  “Miss Hammya Saillim,” a voice said.

  A door creaked open. In the doorway stood a young man with blond hair and elegant clothing, the kind worn in the early 20th century. He watched her with a serene smile.

  “Chronos?!” she gasped, incredulous.