EX: Nightmare

Before five seconds had even passed, the boss—a bald, muscled man towering at six-foot-three—slammed his throne's armrest and roared,

"Who the fu—"

His head burst like a deflated balloon.

The crowbar Westen had thrown was buried deep in the marble pillar behind him. The force was monstrous—so much that the man's body staggered backward, headless, blood spraying in a high arc like a grotesque fountain.

Everyone froze.

Weston's voice rang out again—calm, flat, stating facts.

"Looks like you don't need to pray."

Then, before anyone could process what was happening, he reached for the man next to him—a guy still gripping the girl's right leg—and hoisted him by the neck with one hand.

The man thrashed violently, legs kicking, choking, trying to break free. Westen didn't even flinch. A black, invisible bow shimmered across his body, shielding him.

The struggling man screamed—a raw, bloodcurdling noise—as his body began to burn from within. Slowly. Not fire, but something deeper. His flesh sagged. His insides rotted.

And then—he crumbled into ash.

Ash that rained down on those nearest: three men, one girl, all staring in mute horror.

'I need to do better, but this works tool. Police will think some fire guy did it.'

Westen thought, coldly.

Another man—who had been holding the girl's left leg—snapped out of it and bolted for the door. He didn't make it far. Westen caught him, twisted his neck like a rag, and dropped him limp.

The rest finally started reacting. Nine left. Panic surged. One of them shouted,

"Call the cops! Now! This lunatic's gonna kill us!"

Someone actually pulled out a phone and began dialing. Weston let it happen. The police needed to come for the girls.

And then he continued.

The remaining captors stood in disarray, no weapons, no courage—just like pigs in line for slaughter. Some tried to fight back. Useless. Westen's strength dwarfed them. Their fists landed like paper. Their resistance meant nothing.

Three more died quickly. Weston had retrieved the crowbar from the pillar, using it like a war hammer. Skulls shattered with each swing—not explosive, just sickening. Like porcelain dolls under a mallet.

The man on the phone stood frozen, trembling, staring at Weston with eyes full of disbelief.

The phone was still on the line.

"Sir? Sir?! Please answer—what is happening?!"

A voice from the other end screamed.

Westen didn't let the man reply.

He crushed the phone—and the hand holding it—beneath his heel, then swung the crowbar in a clean arc and split the man's skull.

Silence returned. The girls started at westen with wide eyes.

They all realized the truth: Weston wasn't here to deliver justice. He wasn't a hero.

He could've stopped. He could've spared some of them. But he didn't.

They were already beaten. Already broken.

He hunted them down anyway. One by one. Calm. Unflinching.

If any tried to run, he chased. Broke their legs. Then went back to killing whoever he was about to. It was surgical. And merciless.

That was the scariest part.

Not the violence.

Not the strength.

But the way he did it—like it was routine.

Like it was necessary.

***

The girls were trembling, eyes wide with terror. None of them spoke. Their minds screamed with the same fear — what if he turns on us next?

Westen didn't even look at them.

His gaze swept over the warehouse instead, calm, methodical, searching for evidence. But there was nothing. No cameras. No tags. No marks. As if the place existed purely for this moment.

His eyes briefly landed on a white-haired girl adjusting her torn sleeves. Oddly enough, her dress hadn't been ripped like the others.

'Some twisted slow-unwrapping fetish,'

Westen guessed.

'Pathetic.'

Then he looked down at himself.

No blood.

He blinked, relieved. The hoodie — black, a little oversized — was clean.

'Good.'

It had become his favorite, though he'd worn it for less than an hour. There was just something about it. A kind of… vibe. Like it belonged. Like he belonged in it.

'It would've been a shame to throw it away because of blood. I'm glad its fine.'

He turned the crowbar in his hand, wiped it clean with a flick of Destruction, and tucked it behind his back. No stains. No evidence.

Then, without a word, he started walking toward the exit.

And before he could exist a voice stopped him.

"Please wait!"

He turned and saw that the white-haired girl jogging towards him.

'I should have just left through the roof. I can feel troubles coming.'

He sighed.

The girl stopped in front of him.

"Please take me with you."

Westen was stunned.

He hadn't expected to walk into one of those moments — the classic "hero saves the girl, girl falls head over heels" cliché. And frankly, he wasn't buying it.

He frowned.

"You do realize how ridiculous you sound, right? Don't tell me you fell for me just because I saved you once. That'd be… cheap."

The white-haired girl bit her lip, eyes flickering, unable to meet his gaze.

"I have my reasons,"

She whispered.

"Please… take me with you."

Westen sighed.

"What gives you the confidence that I'm not like the others."

His voice was flat, detached.

That made her flinch.

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off again.

"The police are on their way. Get help from them."

He turned and walked away.

But the sound of hurried footsteps behind him stopped him again.

He looked back, annoyed.

"What now?"

The girl's eyes pleaded.

"Please… I don't have anywhere else to go."

Westen stared at her for a beat.

"Give me one reason. Just one. And I'll consider it."

She looked down, hesitating. Then said something that made the air feel heavier.

"I can be your… sex slave."

Westen closed his eyes and rubbed his temple, exasperated.

"Do I look that desperate to you?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"There are men who'd jump at that offer. Go find one of them."

But she didn't move. Her distress deepened. She almost screamed.

"What's wrong with me?! Look at me — I have a beautiful body! You can do whatever you want!"

He didn't even glance at her.

"That's exactly the problem,"

He said, voice low.

"You're too flashy. Too beautiful. And you reek of trouble. I don't take burdens unless the payoff outweighs the risk."

He paused.

"As for sex… if I really wanted it that badly, I wouldn't need your permission. I can have my way with you anytime I want. And you won't be able to do anything."

Silence.

She stood there, shattered, defeated. Then finally, with trembling lips, she said—

"Then… my family's inheritance. I can give you my family inheritance."

That stopped him.

Westen turned around, meeting her eyes.

"Can or will? Be more specific."

He stood there with a look that said he has taken the bait, but will leave 8f not interesting enough.

-To Be Continued