Chapter 2 Henrik Watson

That night, the car glided through the deserted streets, headlights cutting into the night's inky darkness.

Bang!

A gunshot shattered the silence, deafening and ominously close.

Glass sprayed across the seats as the car window exploded, fragments glittering in the dim streetlights.

All hell broke loose. Terrified creams echoed in the street as the few remaining shops hurried to lower their shutters.

The driver, white-faced and trembling, veered in a panic. The car skidded, tires screeching before slamming into the curb. He slumped forward, unconscious.

Beside him, Khloe blinked, disoriented from the impact.

Pressing a hand to her throbbing head, she tried to make sense of what had happened. Through the cracked window, she glimpsed flickering orange flames a short distance away.

"Oh, no!"

She'd stumbled straight into the deadly crossfires of a gunfight.

It was likely a turf war turned ugly by two warring gangs.

Steadying herself, Khloe pushed open the door and crouched low, inching towards the roadside.

But before she could move further, a figure emerged from the darkness. Tall and powerfully built, he was moving fast.

Even though a mask obscured most of his features, she could still see his intense eyes and the proud outline of his nose.

A dark stain spread across his side, seeping through his clothes—blood.

He stumbled towards her, breathing heavily, and collapsed at her feet.

Just then, another group of burly men burst from the shadows, each armed to the teeth. Their faces were etched with vicious determination, each bearing a tattoo on the hand.

"Perfect! He's down. Now, finish him off!"

The leader, bald and snarling, held up his gun and pointed it towards the fallen man. Then, his gaze fell on Khloe.

She was dressed to the nines, as she was meant to be a gift for a man tonight.

A tight red dress hugged her perfect figure, accentuating her curves and complimenting her porcelain skin. Her glossy hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a delicate, doll-like face with wide, innocent eyes.

In a word, she looked like a vision from a dream—or a man's temptation made flesh.

The bald man's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with lecherous intent.

He had never seen such a beautiful woman before, and he wasn't about to let an opportunity like this slide.

"While you're finishing him off, I'll help myself to this beauty."

He lunged, shoving Khloe back against the shattered window, pressing his weight against her.

"No, please!" she pleaded, her voice trembling as she tried to pull away. "Please don't hurt me."

"Why would I hurt a beauty like you?" he taunted, his fingers gripping her shoulder tightly as he leaned closer, his hot breath on her skin. His men jeered behind him, urging him on, enjoying the show.

But Khloe's hand moved, almost imperceptibly, reaching into her purse. In one swift, desperate motion, her fingers closed around a pen, and she drove it up into his neck with a fierce thrust.

The bald man's eyes widened in shock as blood spurted from the wound, his grip loosening.

Gone was the look of a damsel in distress; her eyes, which were so full of fear just a second earlier, now glinted with a cold light.

What was once a delicate, angelic beauty had transformed into a blood-stained rose, dark and dangerous.

"Bitch, you're asking for it!"

The henchmen froze for a split second, then fury overcame them, and they charged at Khloe with murderous intent.

Her voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

"Don't move, or I'll pull the pen out! He'll bleed out on the spot!"

The men abruptly stopped in their tracks. No one dared to move a muscle.

At this moment, the man who'd been lying motionless suddenly sprang to life, gun in hand, and unleashed a hail of bullets on the stunned thugs.

He moved with such agility that it was clear his injury had only been a ruse.

Even the bald man Khloe held hostage collapsed in a bloody heap, a bullet having shattered his skull in an instant.

Khloe spun her head just in time, avoiding the blood splatter. But her clothes and legs weren't so lucky; they were stained with blood, sticky and warm.

"Ugh!"

The sickly, metallic scent hit her, and her stomach churned.

She couldn't stop herself from retching, knees buckling as she collapsed sideways.

But before she hit the ground, an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her upright. The man's grip was firm, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"Feisty little thing, weren't you so badass just a second ago? What happened?"

Khloe recoiled, shoving him away, her face twisting in defiance.

"Let go of me!"

Before she could get another word out, black-clad men suddenly emerged from the shadows, their faces hard, eyes cold.

Even the surrounding rooftops showed silhouettes of these men, controlling all sniper points.

Each man moved with such deadly precision, and Khloe could tell at a glance that they were all experienced killers.

They brandished machine guns and rocket launchers with practiced ease, as though these were everyday items.

In a word, they looked like an elite strike force—battle-hardened, lethal.

Unexpectedly, one by one, they all started dropping to their knees, as though bowing before a king.

Thousands of them bowed in unison.

"Awaiting your orders, Mr. Watson," the leader announced reverently.

Khloe's breath hitched. "Are you Henrik Watson?"