Guldrin’s Gluttony: Family Bound by Speed & Food

Campos' fingers drummed lazily against the side of his glass, the rhythmic tapping filling the brief silence between them like a ticking clock. His sharp eyes flicked to Guldrin, then to Revy and Alisa, before finally settling back on the young man sitting across from him. 

He exuded a practiced ease, the kind of controlled nonchalance that only men in his profession could pull off without effort. 

Yet, beneath that layer of detached amusement, there was something else, an unmistakable calculation, as if he were already ten moves ahead and waiting to see if Guldrin even understood the game being played.

"You carry yourself like someone who thinks he belongs here," Campos mused, his lips curling just slightly at the edges. "Like someone who isn't afraid of the weight behind a name like Shaw." He took a slow sip of his drink, eyes never leaving Guldrin's. "Either you are who you say, or fishing for information, whichever it is, I will find out."

Guldrin didn't bite. He let the silence linger just a second too long, just enough to make it seem like he wasn't taking the bait, before tilting his head slightly and offering the kind of smile that had pissed off more people than he could count. 

"You seem like a man who enjoys his games," he said, voice casual but laced with just enough curiosity to let Campos think he was still in control of the conversation. "But the question is, are you the house? Or just another player who's pretending to deal the cards?"

'Come on, just give me something to work with here. Tell me who you are, who the Shaw you are referring to is, anything.' Guldrin groaned internally, feeling the urge to just shred all pretense and interrogate him.

Campos' eyes gleamed with something unreadable. Maybe amusement, maybe warning. "That depends on what you're here to bet."

Guldrin leaned back, mirroring Campos' posture, but with just a little more ease, like he had all the time in the world. 

He felt Revy shift slightly beside him, always coiled and ready to strike, while Alisa watched with the kind of neutral expression that gave nothing away but said everything. 

He didn't need to look to know they were ready. And that was the important part, because if this conversation went south, it wasn't going to be about words anymore.

"I think we both know that the moment I stepped through that door, a bet was already placed," Guldrin said, tapping a finger against the table in a slow rhythm. "The only question is whether I get to collect my winnings or whether the house decides to cheat."

Campos let out a low chuckle, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You really don't scare easily, do you?"

Guldrin smirked. "Oh, I do. But I've also learned that the people worth being scared of don't need to waste time proving it."

For the first time, Campos' expression changed just slightly, a flicker of something behind those eyes, approval? Interest? Annoyance? Disdain? It was hard to tell, but it was enough to let Guldrin know he was threading the right needle.

Campos set his drink down and leaned forward slightly, the change in posture subtle but meaningful. "Alright, you've piqued my curiosity. Let's say I believe you have some kind of business tied to Shaw. Doesn't mean I trust you. Doesn't mean I'm about to hand over answers for free."

Guldrin didn't hesitate. "Wouldn't respect you if you did."

Campos studied him for another long moment before nodding. "Fair enough." Then, with a flick of his fingers, he gestured for something, or rather, someone.

A man appeared from the shadows near the back of the room, dressed in a sharp suit but built like a sledgehammer. His presence wasn't theatrical, but it was noticeable in that way dangerous men always were, like a loaded gun sitting on a table, silent but full of promise. He stepped forward between Campos and Guldrin.

Campos didn't react. Instead, he ran a single finger along the edge before glancing back at Guldrin. "Before we continue, humor me. What exactly do you know about me?"

Guldrin's smirk didn't falter, but internally, he was already recalibrating. This was a test. A challenge. And Campos wasn't the kind of man who asked questions he didn't already know the answers to. That meant the wrong answer would cost him. Maybe not his life, not immediately, anyway, but definitely more than he was willing to pay.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his body language controlled, measured. "I know that you don't exist, not in the way most people do. There's no birth certificate, no school records, no fingerprints on file that aren't conveniently tied to half a dozen false identities. I know that your name is nothing more than a facade, and that the people who come looking for you usually don't live long enough to figure out if they found the real thing."

Campos said nothing, but there was a flicker of something behind his gaze, just for a moment.

Guldrin continued. "You control what people believe is the truth, and in a world where perception is everything, that makes you more dangerous than any trigger-happy warlord or cartel boss."

Silence.

Campos' smirk was still there, but it had taken on a different shape, less amusement, more intrigue. He reached for his drink again, taking another slow sip before finally speaking.

"You've done your homework," he admitted, sounding almost impressed. "That, or you're very good at improvising."

Guldrin shrugged, letting the ambiguity hang between them. "Either way, I'm still sitting here."

Campos chuckled. "That you are."

"Okay, let's get down to brass tax, Shaw sent me here to find someone new for the team, he wants new blood. Got anyone who meets the criteria? Skilled, dangerous, and moldable, most importantly, they can drive." Guldrin threw out some bait hoping he would recommend Letty, and in turn, tell him where she was.

Campos studied Guldrin as he drank the offered drink for a long moment, fingers idly tapping against his glass, the ice inside shifting with each movement. 

'Fuck, I haven't drank in this lifetime… I can feel this stuff is really messing with my head… I just want to rip his head off, answers be damned… Patience, all in good time.'

The flickering neon lights from the bar cast long shadows across his sharp features, making him look every bit the devil you don't want to know. He was enjoying this, toying with possibilities in his head, weighing whether this was an opportunity or a liability dressed in casual arrogance.

"Shaw wants new blood, huh?" Campos mused, voice slow, deliberate. He let the words settle like smoke in the air before giving Guldrin a measured look. "Funny, he's not usually the type to take on fresh faces. He likes proven talent. Professionals." He swirled the drink in his hand again, taking a lazy sip before adding, "Not desperate runners looking for a quick payday."

Campos' smirk never faltered, but the way his fingers drummed against the glass gave him away. The man was thinking, analyzing, weighing his options, and deciding whether Guldrin was a liability, a threat, or something worth entertaining a little longer.

Guldrin didn't flinch under the scrutiny. 

If Campos wanted to test him, that was fine. It meant the man hadn't fully made up his mind yet. That was an opportunity, one he wasn't about to waste. 

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table in a casual way, like he wasn't in a room with a cartel boss and a walking mountain of a bodyguard, who probably woke up every morning hoping for an excuse to kill someone.

Campos exhaled sharply, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking another slow sip. "You're an interesting one," he admitted. "Most guys in your position would've come in here with a list of demands. Instead, you're asking for recommendations. That tells me two things." He lifted a single finger, letting it hover between them. "One, you don't actually know where the best talent is. If you did, you wouldn't be here, sitting across from me." His head tilted slightly, studying Guldrin like a snake deciding whether to strike. "And two, you're hoping I tell you something you don't already know."

Guldrin remained still, his expression unreadable. This was the moment, where everything could tip one way or the other.

Campos let a slow smirk creep across his face. "I've made up my mind," he said, voice taking on a new edge. "You're a fraud. A damn good one, I'll give you that, but a fraud nonetheless. Probably working for the feds or some alphabet agency trying to play tough. Didn't know they hired kids like you, but I'll admit, you almost had me convinced." He clicked his tongue in amusement, then turned his gaze to his bodyguard. "Bruce, kill them."

Bruce didn't hesitate. The human boulder was already moving, his massive hands reaching for the gun holstered at his hip. The motion was smooth, practiced, he had done this before. But he had never done it against someone like Guldrin.

"Bad choice, Campos," Guldrin muttered, voice cold as steel. Then his eyes flicked toward his crazy big sister. "Revy, keep him alive. I'll handle the boulder."

The second Bruce's gun cleared the holster, Guldrin was already in motion. He moved like a ghost, one moment seated, the next a blur of speed and precise violence yelling commands. Before Bruce could bring the gun up to fire, Guldrin closed the distance, one hand snapping forward to deflect the silencer on the barrel. The shot went wide, shattering a glass decanter and some expensive alcohol on the table.

A heady aroma filling the air as a result.

Then, chaos.

Guldrin's foot planted firmly into the ground as he twisted, driving his elbow into Bruce's ribs with enough force to make the massive man grunt. But Bruce wasn't just some thug. 

He barely flinched before retaliating, swinging a meaty fist the size of a sledgehammer. Guldrin ducked just in time, the wind from the blow whipping past his face. If that had connected, it would've been a problem.

Guldrin moved with an eerie smoothness, slipping around Bruce's bulk like water through cracks. Before the bigger man could react, Guldrin's palm snapped up, slamming into his wrist at just the right angle to make his fingers spasm. 

The gun dropped, clattering onto the floor.

Bruce snarled, abandoning the firearm entirely. He didn't need it, he was the weapon, at least he thought.

With a roar, he lunged again, swinging a meaty fist with the kind of power that could turn a normal man's skull into paste. Guldrin didn't even bother dodging this time.

Instead, he met Bruce's wrist with his own.

A sickening crack echoed through the room as Guldrin's reinforced bones took the impact and twisted, redirecting the force. Bruce's own momentum betrayed him, sending him stumbling forward.

Guldrin capitalized immediately. A sharp elbow slammed into the back of Bruce's head, making him stagger. Then he followed up by snaking his way around him and placing a knee straight into the solar plexus. The air whooshed out of the boulder's lungs as he crumpled slightly, his balance momentarily compromised.

And that was all Guldrin needed.

With one smooth motion, he pivoted behind Bruce, wrapped an arm around his thick neck, and wrenched him into a chokehold. The veins in Bruce's forehead bulged as he thrashed, trying to pry Guldrin off, but the smaller fighter held firm, his grip unrelenting.

"Guldrin!" Revy called out from across the room, laughter in her voice. "C'mon, don't break the poor guy too fast. I was hoping to get some fun in."

Guldrin barely noticed Revy's amused commentary from somewhere behind him. 

His entire focus was on the man in his grip, the mountain of muscle currently thrashing with every ounce of strength he had left. 

Bruce was weakening, his frantic struggling growing sluggish, his movements slowing as oxygen deprivation worked its cruel magic. 

His body was betraying him, his instincts screaming for air, but Guldrin's arm was an unrelenting vice, coiled around his thick neck like a snake squeezing the life out of its prey.

Still, Bruce was no ordinary man. He had spent years forging his body into something beyond human, something that could take and dish out punishment in equal measure. 

Even as his vision blurred, even as his body begged for relief, he summoned what remained of his strength and made one last desperate play for survival.

With a guttural roar, he threw himself backward, using all of his weight and momentum to slam Guldrin into the nearest wall. 

The impact was brutal. 

The force of it sent a sharp jolt through Guldrin's spine, knocking the breath from his lungs in a painful gasp. Before he could fully regain his composure, Bruce did it again. 

Then again. 

Each slam reverberated through the room, shaking the walls and furniture. The sheer power behind the repeated impacts was enough to break ribs, if not outright crush an ordinary person.

Guldrin felt the pain shoot through his body, rattling his skull. He was a little shaken, sure, but he had more than enough strength to hold on. His grip didn't waver, his arm remained locked in place, and Bruce, despite his best efforts, was still suffocating.

But then a thought occurred to him.

Why was he even bothering to hold on?

Bruce had already lost. His air supply was nearly gone, his muscles were starved of oxygen, and once Guldrin let go, he'd be left gasping like a fish out of water, struggling just to keep himself upright. 

The sheer exertion of his final stand had drained him further, and the human body, no matter how strong, had limits. 

Bruce had just hit his.

Guldrin could keep choking him out, wait for him to go limp, let the lights fade from his eyes slowly…

Or he could make this faster. More efficient.

The second Bruce threw himself back for another desperate slam, Guldrin released him. It wasn't an accident, it was strategy. 

He let go at the exact right moment, shifting his body just enough to slip away before Bruce could pin him again.

Bruce stumbled forward, suddenly free, but his body was too oxygen-starved to react properly. His knees buckled. His lungs heaved, desperately trying to suck in air. He was disoriented, unsteady.

That was all the opportunity Guldrin needed.

In a flash, he scooped up the discarded gun, the very same one Bruce had drawn at the start of this mess. His fingers curled around the grip with practiced ease, the weight familiar, comforting. 

Without hesitation, he leveled it at Bruce's massive chest.

Bruce barely had time to process what was happening. His wide, bloodshot eyes snapped toward Guldrin, mouth opening as if to protest, to plead, to do something…

Too late.

Guldrin pulled the trigger.

The suppressed gunfire was little more than a muffled pop, but the results were anything but quiet. The first shot punched into Bruce's chest, sending a violent shudder through his body. His expression twisted into something almost comical; shock, disbelief, pain, all wrapped into one frozen moment.

Then came the second shot.

Then the third.

And the fourth.

The gun barely kicked in Guldrin's hand as he kept firing, each bullet finding its mark, tearing through muscle and bone with clinical precision. 

Bruce's massive frame convulsed with each impact, his body jerking like a puppet with its strings being cut one by one.

By the time the last bullet tore into him, Bruce's strength, his legendary, monstrous strength, was gone.

His breath hitched. A choked, wet sound bubbled from his throat. His arms, once powerful and unrelenting, hung limp at his sides. His knees buckled completely, his body giving out all at once.

And then, like a felled titan, he collapsed.

His massive form crumpled to the floor, landing with a heavy, lifeless thud.

Guldrin didn't wait to confirm. He already knew. Bruce was dead before he even hit the ground.

Guldrin frowned. He hadn't wanted to have to kill him. That was… unfortunate. 

At least he drew first; all complicated feelings were gone once that happened.

Campos, on the other hand, had gone from looking amused to looking deeply concerned. His smirk had disappeared completely, replaced with something bordering on genuine fear.

"Now, that didn't have to, and wasn't supposed to happen," Guldrin muttered, flexing his fingers as he looked down at Bruce's crumpled form. He sighed, then glanced at his sister. "Revy, how's our friend?"

Campos twitched, and Guldrin immediately understood why. Revy was playing with him. The poor bastard had both of his hands pinned to the gleaming wooden table, each impaled by a carefully placed knife. 

Blood welled around the steel, trickling down onto the polished surface in dark, slow-moving streams. 

His breathing was uneven, coming in short, ragged gasps, his body locked between the instinct to fight and the cruel realization that there was nothing he could do. 

Revy had been precise. 

No major arteries, no instantly fatal wounds, just pain. A lot of pain. 

It was a surprise this guy wasn't screaming his head off over it.

Revy let out a small, amused hum, tilting her head as if admiring her handiwork. "Oh, he's fine," she cooed, her tone sickly sweet, as if she hadn't just turned a man into a human pincushion. "He's just learning a very valuable lesson about making bad decisions."

Campos' face was pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His fingers twitched feebly against the hilts of the knives, as if his body refused to accept the reality of his situation. He sucked in a sharp breath, wincing as the pain flared through his limbs, then clenched his teeth so hard his jaw muscle twitched.

"You… crazy little-" He broke off, inhaling sharply. His lips curled in a grimace as another wave of pain rolled through him. His breath was shaky, labored, but he still managed to muster a sliver of defiance. "Who the hell are you two?"

Guldrin smiled, the expression relaxed, almost pleasant. "Me?" he asked, leaning back slightly in his chair, completely unbothered by the blood pooling in front of him. "I'm the guy who's still sitting here."

Campos didn't reply. Probably because he was too busy focusing on not passing out from the agony and adrenaline crashing through his system.

The air in the room was thick with the smell of blood, gunpowder, and fear. 

The distant echo of the gunfire from earlier still lingered in the walls, as if the violence that had taken place minutes ago refused to fade into silence just yet. 

The body of Bruce, Campos' so-called protection, was sprawled nearby, hulking, still, and very, very dead. The sight of him, the sheer brutal efficiency with which Guldrin had ended him, hung like a storm cloud over the crime lord's head.

Guldrin drummed his fingers against the table, his demeanor eerily calm given the carnage surrounding him. 

"Now, about that recommendation," he said, as if they were simply discussing business over dinner, rather than dealing with the aftermath of a very one-sided massacre. His voice was smooth, deliberate. "Letty Ortiz Toretto. Where is she?" He gestured vaguely toward the fresh corpse on the floor. "Speak, and this will be over."

Campos' breathing was shallow, each inhale a struggle, but there was still something defiant in his eyes. Even as he trembled, even as the blood loss was slowly draining the fight from his body, his pride wasn't broken just yet. 

He managed to smirk, though it was a weak, painful thing. "You're not getting anything out of me," he spat, each word forced through grit teeth. "I don't know who you are, but you have no idea what kind of shitstorm you've just kicked up."

Guldrin sighed dramatically, shaking his head as if disappointed. "See, now you're just making things difficult," he mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I was hoping we could keep this civil." 

He lazily waved a hand toward Bruce's unmoving form. "Well… mostly civil. You answer some questions, and I end it cleanly, but now…" He let his voice trail off, letting the implication settle.

Campos clenched his jaw, his breathing coming faster now, shallow and uneven. His body was failing him, but his stubbornness hadn't yet given out. He swallowed, then forced out a single, shaky breath.

"Go to hell."

Revy's grin widened, her fingers curling around the handle of another knife, twirling it between her fingers like a child playing with a toy. She leaned in slightly, voice practically purring.

"Oh, you first."

Campos flinched, barely noticeable, but Revy caught it. She always caught it. The way his shoulders stiffened, the way his fingers twitched despite being skewered to the table like some macabre display. It was subtle, but it was there, the tiniest crack in his stubborn little act.

And that crack was all she needed.

She let the knife slip into her palm, gripping it with practiced ease, tapping the flat of the blade gently against his cheek as if she were deciding where to carve first.

Spoiler: she was.

"You really should've answered the first time," she murmured, her tone almost sympathetic. Almost.

She wasn't looking for information anymore. Not really. She already knew how this would end, how it always ended. 

There was a point where stubbornness turned into stupidity, and Campos had long since passed that line. If he thought his silence would buy him anything other than more pain, he was sorely mistaken.

But she wasn't here just to break him. No, this was something else.

Guldrin sat quietly nearby, watching, waiting. And that was exactly the problem.

She knew her little brother, knew the way his mind worked, the things that went unsaid between them. He was strong, sharper than anyone gave him credit for, but there were certain things she wasn't going to let him take on.

Take it as a naive big sister trying to shelter her little brother.

This world, the one she thrived in, wasn't one she wanted Guldrin to drown in.

If only she knew.

Violence was second nature to her, something that ran in her veins, an art form she had perfected over years of bloodshed and brutality. She enjoyed it, the way a blade slid through flesh, the rush of power when someone realized, too late, that they were completely at her mercy. 

It was intoxicating. 

Addictive.

But Guldrin?

She refused to let him become like her.

Sure, he could fight, could kill when needed, but there was a difference between survival and sadism. A difference between doing what had to be done and doing it because you liked it.

She would handle the blood, the screams, the mess.

He didn't need to.

Her fingers trailed the knife down Campos' jawline, pressing just enough for the edge to bite into his skin, drawing the thinnest line of red. His breath hitched, his eyes darting toward Guldrin as if hoping for some form of mercy.

That was a mistake.

Revy's expression darkened instantly, her grip tightening. "Oh, don't look at him," she snapped, her voice laced with something dangerous. "You think he's gonna save you? Cute."

Campos winced as she twisted the blade slightly, the sting pulling a strangled sound from his throat. He still wasn't screaming. 

Not yet.

Revy let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head like a disappointed teacher dealing with a particularly dense student. 

Her fingers curled a little tighter around the hilt of her knife, the metal still warm from where it had been pressed against Campos' skin. Her tone took on an almost wistful quality, as if she were lamenting a missed opportunity rather than contemplating what fresh torment to unleash next.

"You know," she mused, tilting her head just slightly, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and irritation, "I was gonna be quick about this." 

She paused, letting the weight of those words settle in, letting him think, just for a second, that maybe she was capable of mercy. Then her smile widened, sharp as the blade in her hand. "But then you had to go and be an idiot."

The next moment, the knife wasn't at his face anymore.

It was in his thigh.

Deep.

The sickening sound of steel tearing through muscle and flesh filled the air, followed by a sharp, gut-wrenching scream as Campos' body spasmed violently. 

His hands, still pinned to the table by the other knives, twitched helplessly as pain exploded through his leg. His breath hitched, then left him in a strangled, gasping cry. His eyes, wide and wild with agony, darted to Revy, then to Guldrin, searching for anything, pity, hesitation, an opening.

He found none.

Revy's grin stretched wider, her eyes practically gleaming as she watched him writhe. She tilted her head slightly, drinking in the way his body shuddered, the way his skin had gone deathly pale in an instant.

"There it is," she murmured, almost to herself, voice laced with satisfaction. "That's the sound I was looking for."

Campos, however, wasn't done yet. 

Pain had a way of unlocking something primal in people, and in his case, it was rage. 

The agony should have silenced him, should have broken him, but instead, it just made him angrier. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding so hard it was a wonder they didn't crack under the pressure. 

His nostrils flared, and despite the sweat pouring down his face, despite the tremor in his limbs, he forced out a choked, furious breath.

Then he started cursing.

At first, it was in English, ragged, hate-filled words spit between gasps of pain, threats about how they didn't know who they were messing with, how he was going to kill them both, how they were already dead men walking. 

Then, when his thoughts turned meaner, more visceral, he switched to Spanish, the words rolling off his tongue like venom.

"¡Hijos de puta! ¡Voy a cortarlos en pedazos! ¡Les juro que van a rogar por la muerte antes de que termine con ustedes!" 

("Sons of bitches! I'm going to cut them into pieces! I swear you are going to beg for death before I finish you!")

Revy just laughed, low and throaty, completely unfazed. If anything, she was enjoying it.

"Oh, now we're getting somewhere," she cooed, leaning in just slightly, as if he had just told her something sweet instead of threatening to carve her into tiny little pieces. "I like a man with a little fire in him. Makes this way more fun."

Campos spat at her, the mixture of saliva and blood barely missing her boot.

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Tsk, tsk. Now that's just rude."

Guldrin, on the other hand, remained silent. 

He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, hadn't so much as blinked. His expression was unreadable, his gaze steady, watching, absorbing. 

He wasn't disturbed, wasn't flinching at the violence unfolding before him. But he wasn't enjoying it either. He was just… there.

It was a means to an end.

Campos saw this. And that's when he made his next mistake.

"You think this is funny, cabrón?" he hissed, his breath ragged, his words laced with pure hatred. "You think you can just do this and walk away? Do you have any idea who I am?"

Revy arched an eyebrow. "Oh, this should be good."

Campos' lips curled into a sneer, despite the fact that he was still bleeding all over the place, despite the fact that he was pinned to a damn table with knives. His voice, weak as it was, still carried the weight of arrogance.

"I'm Braga."

Silence.

For a split second, there was nothing but the distant hum of the overhead lights, the faint, metallic scent of blood thickening in the air.

Then Revy burst out laughing.

Not a chuckle. Not a smirk. Full-bodied, head-thrown-back, genuine laughter. 

The kind that made her shoulders shake, the kind that left her gasping for breath.

Revy nearly doubled over, laughing so hard that her breath hitched and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. 

She had seen some desperate men say some stupid things before, but this? This was something else entirely. She gasped for air, wiping at her face as if she had just heard the greatest joke ever told.

"Oh, shit," she wheezed between snorts, her shoulders shaking. "Oh, wow. That's a new one. You're Braga? That's the best you've got?"

Campos' scowl deepened, his face twisting in a mixture of pain, humiliation, and unrelenting rage. 

Blood dripped down his lip where he had bitten it too hard, his chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths. 

He wanted to kill her, he wanted to rip her apart piece by piece, but there was nothing he could do, not while he was pinned down, bleeding, and at the mercy of a lunatic with a knife.

Scratch that, many knives. Too many.

Revy wasn't done. Not even close.

"You know," she went on, her tone dripping with condescension, "I've heard a lot of stupid shit in my time. Hell, I've been in rooms with some of the dumbest criminals on the planet, and I swear…" she let out a sharp chuckle, shaking her head in disbelief, "This is top-tier. Like, really, really premium-grade bullshit."

She leaned back, grinning like a cat with a cornered mouse, utterly entertained. "What's next? You gonna tell me you're actually the President of Mexico? Maybe the goddamn Pope? Oh wait! How about this, maybe you're secretly an FBI agent, deep undercover, and this whole thing is just one big misunderstanding?"

Campos' eyes burned with fury, but no amount of rage could change the fact that he was helpless. 

He knew it. 

She knew it. 

And worst of all, she was enjoying it.

Guldrin, however, had stopped laughing.

His expression, which had been unreadable up until now, suddenly shifted. His eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing as his mind turned over Campos' ridiculous claim. At first, it sounded absurd. Braga? 

This low-level bastard, caught with his pants down, begging for his life? No way.

But then...

Actually…

His mind started working at a breakneck pace, connecting dots that had seemed unrelated before. It was possible. Hiding in plain sight was an effective method, one that truly powerful men knew how to exploit. 

Most people assumed power came with notoriety, but the smartest criminals understood that real power came from being unseen. From moving in the shadows. From letting the world think they were dead, insignificant, or someone else entirely.

Guldrin's jaw clenched.

It made too much sense.

His fists tightened at his sides, a heat rising in his chest like a fire that had been smoldering for far too long. He stepped forward without hesitation.

Then he punched Campos, or Braga in the face.

The man's head snapped back violently, his skull bouncing off the wooden chair before slumping forward. Blood splattered from his already broken nose, staining his teeth, but before he could even groan, the second punch landed.

Then the third.

Then the fourth.

Guldrin was quick, efficient, and brutal. No wasted movement, no unnecessary flair, just raw, unfiltered violence. 

Each strike was delivered with purpose, each blow carrying the full weight of his rage. 

He hit him until his face was swollen, until the features blurred into something barely recognizable, until the man's labored breathing was the only thing confirming he was still conscious.

Then Guldrin stopped.

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the sound of Campos wheezing through bloodied lips. His head lolled to the side, barely able to keep upright.

Guldrin exhaled through his nose, trying to steady himself. 

His pulse pounded in his ears. His vision swam with the raw, unfiltered anger coursing through his veins. He took a step back, inhaling deeply, trying to keep his composure, but then he saw it.

That flicker in Campos' remaining good eye.

That tiny glimmer of defiance, buried beneath all the blood and bruises.

That was all it took.

Guldrin lunged forward, grabbing the man's collar and yanking him upright. The chair screeched against the floor as he pulled him in, their faces inches apart, the knives impaling Braga's hands tearing out from the force. His voice was low, seething, and laced with something dangerous.

"Now, Braga," he spat the name with venom, "what the fuck have you done with my-"

He punched him again.

Campos choked on his own blood. His body twitched, convulsing, his mind barely able to process what was happening anymore.

Guldrin didn't care.

"MY MOTHER!?"

Another punch.

His knuckles ached, but he didn't stop. He hit him again. And again. And again.

Campos couldn't even fight back. He could only take it, his consciousness slipping in and out, his body jerking violently with every strike.

Revy, watching from the sidelines, let out a low whistle. "Damn, kid. Didn't know you had that in you."

Guldrin ignored her. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. 

His knuckles dripped red, but he barely felt it. 

His mind was a whirlwind of fury, of frustration, of the sickening realization that this man, this piece of shit, might actually be the key to everything.

Campos let out a low, gurgled groan, his head slumping forward. He coughed, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

And then, slowly, weakly, he laughed.

It was faint. A wheeze more than anything. But it was a laugh.

Guldrin's grip tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of the man's shirt, barely resisting the urge to rip him apart.

"Wanna know a secret?" Campos rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, wet with blood and barely holding together. 

He lifted his swollen face, his lips curling into something grotesquely close to a grin.

Guldrin didn't answer. He just stared, his rage simmering beneath the surface.

Campos chuckled again, his breath hitching as his broken ribs protested. Then, with what little strength he had left, he muttered,

"You're too late."

Guldrin's blood ran cold.

Campos grinned wider, even as the blood pooled at the corners of his mouth. "You think you can save her?" His words were slurred, his body failing him, but the malice in his tone was unmistakable. "She's already gone."

The words hit like a sledgehammer.

Guldrin's grip faltered for half a second. Just half a second. And that was all the bastard needed.

Campos, no, Braga, laughed. It was a hollow, rasping sound, thick with blood and arrogance. Even with his face swollen, his nose broken, and his breath wheezing through shattered ribs, the son of a bitch had the nerve to grin like he had just pulled off the con of the century. 

It wasn't the laugh of a man who had been beaten to a pulp. No, it was the laugh of a man who knew something his attacker didn't, the laugh of someone who thought he still had control.

Guldrin's vision blurred, not from exhaustion, not from pain, but from the sheer, unfiltered rage boiling inside him. 

The way Braga looked at him, even now, even after getting his face remodeled with Guldrin's fists, was infuriating. It was like he was taunting him, daring him to figure it out.

For the briefest moment, Guldrin's mind raced, piecing things together at an almost inhuman speed. 

The pieces were there, scattered, incomplete, but they were forming a picture, one that he didn't like. 

If they had just wanted Letty dead, why the race? Why take her car? That part didn't make sense. A bullet to the head was easier, cleaner, and left less evidence. But taking her car? That was deliberate. It was a move that meant something more than simply killing her.

His knuckles ached from the repeated impact against Braga's face, but he didn't care. He stepped back, breathing hard, the weight of realization sinking in like lead in his stomach.

This bastard was lying.

Guldrin clenched his fists, his breath ragged and uneven. The idea that Letty was just gone, that she had simply been disposed of like trash, didn't sit right. If she were dead, why go through the trouble of taking her? Of making her race? Of making sure she was alone?

His chest tightened, and the rage sharpened into something worse, something colder. This was about taking her out of the equation. This was about control. About making sure she was in a position where she couldn't fight back.

Braga must have seen something shift in his expression because, for the first time, the confidence in his eyes wavered. 

Guldrin cracked his neck, shaking out his fists before driving them back into Braga's face with enough force to send blood splattering onto the concrete.

"You're gonna stop feeding me bullshit now." His voice was low, deadly, controlled. "You're gonna tell me where she is. What you've done to her. Right now."

Braga coughed, spitting out a tooth along with a thick wad of blood. He groaned but managed a weak chuckle, shaking his head.

"You think you're scary, kid?" he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. "I've dealt with real monsters."

Guldrin didn't hesitate. He slammed his fist into Braga's ribs, hard enough to make something inside crack. Braga let out a strangled sound of pain, his body jerking from the sheer force of the blow.

"I'm not trying to be scary," Guldrin said, his voice ice-cold. "I'm trying to be clear. You talk, or you stop breathing real fast, then I bring you back, and we do it again."

Braga wheezed, his bravado slipping inch by inch as he struggled for air. The smugness in his eyes dulled, replaced by something much more human, pain, fear. He licked his bloody lips, blinking rapidly, as if trying to think his way out of this.

Guldrin gave him no such luxury. He grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward so their faces were inches apart.

"Where. The. Fuck. Is. She."

Braga's eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, for anything, but there was nothing. No reinforcements. No backup. Just him and Guldrin, and the absolute certainty that this kid was about to kill him if he didn't start talking. Most likely even if he did.

Guldrin didn't need to say anything else. The silence was louder than any threat.

Braga swallowed thickly, his bravado finally shattering. His voice cracked when he spoke.

"They took her for a job," he admitted, barely above a whisper.

Guldrin's grip tightened. "What job?"

Braga's breath hitched. "A one-way job," he coughed. "She was smuggled across the border… hidden in one of the semi-trucks." He winced, eyes darting downward, as if ashamed of his own words, or more likely afraid of what these words will cause the kid in front of him to do. "She's… she's being used."

Guldrin's stomach twisted violently, but he didn't let himself react, not yet.

"Used how?" His voice was sharper than a blade.

Braga hesitated, but one look at Guldrin's fist twitching at his side made him spit the rest out in a panicked rush.

"They- They're gonna load her up her car with heroin," he stammered. "She's just another mule to us. They'll make the run back across the border, deliver the goods, and then… she's dead."

Guldrin's blood turned to ice.

For a moment, nothing existed. No sound. No movement. Just a single, horrifying truth crashing into him with the force of a freight train.

They weren't keeping her alive. 

They weren't holding her for ransom. 

They were using her, as logistics, as a disposable tool in their trafficking operation. And the second she stopped being useful, she'd be discarded like all the others.

No.

No, fuck that.

Before he even knew what he was doing, his fist connected with Braga's face again. And again. And again.

Braga's body jerked with every hit, his head snapping back, blood splattering onto the floor, onto Guldrin's knuckles, onto everything. But Guldrin didn't care. He saw red, only red.

Braga wasn't a man anymore. 

He was a target. 

A problem. 

An obstacle between him and his mother.

Guldrin stood over Braga's crumpled form, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. His fists ached, the bones in his hands throbbing from the relentless onslaught he had delivered. The once-proud drug lord now lay sprawled across the cold concrete floor, his face unrecognizable, swollen, broken, and painted with streaks of crimson. 

Blood dripped from his split lips, pooling beneath him, a stark contrast to the once-clean floor. His body twitched involuntarily, a pathetic, weak gurgle escaping his throat, barely even a sound. It was a noise of surrender, of utter defeat.

But surrender wasn't enough. Not for Guldrin.

He crouched low, grabbing a fistful of Braga's matted hair and yanking his head up with no gentleness, forcing the man to look at him. 

The drug lord's breath was shallow, his pupils blown wide, but there was still that sliver of awareness, he was still clinging to life, still capable of understanding what was about to happen. Guldrin wanted him to feel every second of it.

"Where is the drop-off point?"

Braga tried to form words, but his mouth barely worked. 

A sharp inhale, a sputtering cough, and then, finally, with what little strength he had left, he managed to rattle off an address. 

The words were broken, barely coherent, but Guldrin understood. Just outside the inner part of the border.

A slow nod. That was all he gave.

This man, this monster, had orchestrated suffering on a level that could not be forgiven. Countless lives ruined, innocent people murdered, families destroyed, all for power, greed, and control. 

And now, Letty, his mother, was another victim of Braga's sick, twisted game. Smuggled across the border, thrown into a death trap disguised as a job, a plan set in motion where the only certainty was that she wouldn't live to see the payday.

Guldrin had known anger before. 

He had known rage, had felt fury burn in his veins like fire. 

But this? 

This was something else.

The air around him shifted. A hum filled the space, subtle at first, like the low crackling of static before a storm. Then it grew. The scent of ozone thickened, sharp and electric, and a crimson glow flickered at the edges of his vision. His body responded instinctively, the power within him awakening, uncoiling like a beast that had been lying dormant, waiting for this moment.

Braga, barely clinging to life, felt it too. 

His eyes, swollen and bruised, widened just a fraction, but Guldrin saw the fear in them. 

That final moment of clarity, of realization, he knew he wasn't walking away from this. There would be no deal, no last-minute escape, no second chances. 

His reign of terror ended here.

Guldrin exhaled slowly, letting the power surge through him. The red lightning arced across his body, crackling in sharp, jagged lines, illuminating the dimly lit space in an eerie, blood-red glow. The energy coursed through him like liquid fire, hot, all-consuming, an extension of his very will.

He tightened his grip on Braga's head, pulling his head back so their eyes met one final time.

"Now," Guldrin said, his voice steady, cold, and absolute, "know true despair."

The lightning struck.

The first surge sent Braga's body into violent convulsions, his spine arching unnaturally as the raw energy flooded his nervous system. 

His mouth opened in a silent scream, but no sound came, only the flickering of his limbs, the jerking motions of a body overwhelmed by agony beyond comprehension.

Guldrin didn't stop.

The electricity coiled around him like a living entity, feeding into Braga with relentless precision, tearing through him inch by inch. 

The drug lord's skin blistered, his veins visible beneath the surface, glowing for a fraction of a second before bursting. His body smoked, the stench of burning flesh rising into the air, acrid and heavy.

Guldrin's eyes, once filled with cold calculation, shifted, gold bled into the irises, a deep, ethereal glow that seemed almost otherworldly. 

He was somewhere else now, caught between the physical world and something far beyond human understanding.

"Arturo Braga," he intoned, his voice carrying a weight that didn't belong to any ordinary executioner. "You have been judged."

Braga's movements slowed. The spasms weakened, his body twitching only in small, final jerks as the last remnants of life clung desperately to him.

"And sentenced to purgatory."

A final pulse of energy surged from Guldrin's fingers, the red lightning flaring one last time, brighter than before. Braga's body seized, one last, violent tremor, before it collapsed completely. 

Still. 

Lifeless. 

The light in his eyes extinguished forever.

Smoke rose from the remains, the scent of charred flesh lingering in the air. Guldrin released his grip, letting what was left of the man fall to the ground in a useless heap. He didn't need to check for a pulse. 

There was none.

Dead. No chance for revival. No miracle. No escape.

Executed by electricity.

Poetic.

What did this mean for the future? 

Who cares? Braga is dead, and would suffer for eternity, that was enough.

(Give me your POWER, Please, and Thank You! Leave reviews and comments, they motivate me to continue.)