The Seven Slayers [1]

[Warning 18+] Explicit bloody and cruel scenes ahead that are not suitable for underage readers.

8:55 AM

It was a crisp, beautiful morning in mid-spring, the kind that made City C feel peaceful, untouched by the ugliness of the world. A sleek black car pulled smoothly into the driveway of a house in a well-kept neighborhood. The door clicked open, and a woman stepped out, juggling a bag of warm bagels in her arms. She hummed softly as she approached the front door, the habitual rhythm of her morning unchanged—until she turned the knob and stepped inside.

Her body stiffened.

Something was wrong.

The house was silent. Too silent.

Robin, her ever-loyal golden retriever, was nowhere to be seen. Normally, he'd be barking, his tail thumping against the floor, excited to greet her. But now? Not a single sound.

Her pulse quickened. Carefully, she shifted the bagels to one hand and reached for the small firearm strapped near her ankle. Her fingers tightened around the grip as she stepped forward cautiously, her senses on high alert.

"Robin?" she called out. No response.

She moved deeper into the house, her muscles coiled tight. Every step on the hardwood floor felt unnervingly loud. She reached the living room—and froze.

Robin lay sprawled across the floor. For a terrifying moment, she thought he was dead, but then she saw it—the faint, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. The dog was unconscious, but breathing.

Someone had been here. Someone was still here.

Her mind raced. Mike.

Gripping her gun tighter, she sprinted toward the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she reached the master bedroom. The moment she stepped inside, she felt her stomach drop.

"Oh my God! Mike!!"

Her husband was naked, bound to the bedpost by a pair of steel cuffs. His muscular legs were riddled with bullet wounds, blood oozing onto the sheets. Duct tape covered his mouth, muffling the desperate sounds escaping his throat. His wild, panicked eyes locked onto hers, and he shook his head violently.

"Mike—"

Then she heard it.

A faint, rhythmic beeping.

Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze snapped to the thick black collar locked around her husband's neck. A bomb.

A digital screen glowed menacingly.

10:59:50...

And counting down.

"What the—"

Her phone buzzed violently in her pocket. She nearly dropped the gun as she fumbled to answer.

"Who the fuck is this?!" she snapped, her voice trembling.

A distorted voice crackled through the speaker, robotic yet eerily amused. "Good morning, Mrs. Smith."

She was just about to respond, when... "Or should I say... Poisonous Eve?"

She stiffened. No one had called her that name in years.

A cold chill shot down her spine.

Her grip on the gun tightened. "...Who are you?"

The voice chuckled, smooth and taunting. "Are you sure you wanna waste your precious hubby's time with introductions?"

Her fingers trembled. "What do you want?"

Another chuckle. "Oh, I don't want anything. But you? You want something very, very badly."

A scream.

A child's scream.

"Mommy!!"

Her blood ran cold.

"Bobby!" Her son. Her 10-year-old baby. She had just dropped him off at school. She had watched him walk into the goddamn building. How the hell—

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY SON?!"

The voice on the other end sighed with dramatic amusement. "Relax, relax. Bobby is just fine. For now. Of course, that depends entirely on you."

"Tell me what you want!" she shrieked, raw panic overtaking her.

A low laugh. "You see, I'm a big fan of... The Seven Slayers."

Her breath hitched. Mike's eyes widened. They locked gazes, both instantly knowing what this meant.

Their past had found them.

The voice hummed, almost playfully. "Tell me, Eve... ever heard of them?"

Her mouth went dry. "That— That team is gone," she whispered. "The Seven Slayers don't exist anymore."

"Exactly," the caller purred. "And I want you to bring them back."

Her stomach lurched. "I don't know where they are."

A sharp tsk came through the line. "Oh, come on, now. Don't insult me. You know. You've always known."

Eve swallowed, sweat trickling down the back of her neck. "What do you want us for?"

"Nothing too complicated," the voice said smoothly. "I just want a little... reunion."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. "Reunion?"

"Yes, Eve. Gather at least three of the Slayers and meet me at C River, 8 PM tonight."

A sharp inhale. "And my son?"

The voice softened, almost mockingly. "Oh, you have my word. Not a single hair on Bobby's head will be harmed... as long as you cooperate."

Her lips trembled. She had no choice. She turned toward Mike, eyes wide with silent questions.

He gritted his teeth, then nodded.

Her throat tightened. "Fine," she whispered. "I'll do it."

"Smart girl," the caller mused. "But don't get any funny ideas. If you try to be clever, if I see even a hint of betrayal..."

Beep.

The timer on Mike's bomb collar sped up.

She gasped. "I— I won't!"

The countdown returned to its original pace.

"I'm watching you, Mr. and Mrs. Smith." The voice was thick with satisfaction. "Ooooh, I can't wait to see you in action again. I'll even bring popcorn."

Click.

The line went dead.

Eve stood frozen, phone still pressed against her ear.

Then, without thinking, she threw the phone against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces. Her entire body trembled.

"We have to do it, Eve," Mike rasped through clenched teeth. "We don't have a goddamn choice."

She clenched her fists.

The Seven Slayers...

Were back

--

10:50 AM, City C

With a limp, Mr. Smith staggered out of the clinic, completely ignoring his personal doctor's urgent advice to rest for a few days. Rest? How could he possibly rest when there was a bomb strapped around his neck, set to detonate in less than ten hours?

His legs throbbed with pain, freshly treated but far from healed. He clenched his jaw and forced himself forward, his mind racing with only one priority—finding Brown Johnson.

Eve was right. The Seven Slayers were long gone. Their team had disbanded years ago. But that didn't mean they had all completely cut ties. Some of them still kept in contact, and Johnson was one of them.

And right now, Johnson was his only hope.

Smith could have just called him, saving himself the agony of moving. But he needed more than just Johnson's company—he needed the man's expertise. The guy was their bomb specialist. The best at designing, crafting, and defusing them. If there was anyone in the world who could remove this goddamn thing from his neck, it was him.

That thought alone propelled him forward, ignoring the fire burning in his wounded legs as he slid into his car and sped toward Johnson's place.

Every wince, every painful twitch of his muscles only made his rage grow. How the fuck had they managed to do this to him? He was a light sleeper. His instincts were sharp. But today, he hadn't woken up until his legs were already mutilated.

And the worst part? No one was there.

There were no gunshots. No attackers in sight. Just a pair of mini timed explosions that had detonated directly on his knees. The sheer precision of it sent a shiver down his spine. Whoever these bastards were, they weren't amateurs.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up in front of Johnson's apartment building. His fingers twitched as he reached for the car door handle, pushing through the pain as he forced himself out.

Limping up the stairs, he made his way to Johnson's apartment, his face tight with urgency. His hands balled into fists.

The plan was simple—get Johnson to defuse the bomb.

What wasn't simple was how to tell Johnson that he was about to get dragged into a hell he hadn't signed up for. If Johnson found out about Bobby's abduction, or about the collar strapped around Smith's neck beforehand, he might just run.

Smith needed to trap him in before he had the chance to refuse.

Reaching the door, he immediately rang the bell. Once. Twice.

No answer.

Frowning, he rang it again. Still nothing.

"Johnson!" he called impatiently.

Silence.

His gut twisted with unease. He knocked hard on the door, then tried the knob.

Unlocked.

A cold chill ran down his spine.

Slowly, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. The apartment was eerily quiet.

"Johnson?" he called out, stepping inside.

Nothing.

His grip tightened around his phone as he moved deeper into the apartment, heading toward the kitchen. The tension in his chest thickened with every step.

And then—

"Johnson!"

His stomach plummeted.

Brown Johnson sat at the dining table, completely still. His head was tilted back against the chair. His lifeless, wide-open eyes stared up at the ceiling, frozen in a silent scream.

Foam dribbled from his purple lips.

Smith's hands trembled violently. His old friend—the man he had fought beside for years—was dead.

He forced himself to look away from Johnson's face and took in the scene before him.

A plate of noodles, half-eaten.A fork on the floor, tangled with stray strings of pasta.A half-empty cup of coffee, still faintly steaming.

It took him all of two seconds to realize what had happened.

Poison.

His phone vibrated.

A message.

"Police will be there in less than five minutes. I hope you're already leaving that place."

His nostrils flared. His fingers gripped the phone so tight he nearly crushed it.

"Fuck you!" he shot back in a text.

But he had no choice. He had to leave. Now.

Shoving his phone into his pocket, Smith turned on his heel and bolted. His knees screamed in agony, but adrenaline forced his body forward. He had to get out before the cops showed up.

He barely made it into the car before his rage exploded.

With a sharp slam, he pounded his fist against the steering wheel, cursing under his breath. His one chance at getting the bomb removed was now rotting in a chair.

Breathing heavily, he reached for his phone again, his fingers hovering over the screen before he finally made the call.

His wife picked up after the first ring.

-

14:01, City SF

Mrs. Smith drummed her fingers anxiously against the leather of her handbag. She had just arrived in City SF after her husband's urgent call. The moment he told her about Johnson's death, she had immediately booked the first available flight while instructing him to go to City M to find that bitch.

She exhaled heavily, forcing her rising irritation down. Personal grudges had to be put aside now.

Even if it meant him seeing her.

Her fingers curled into fists. That bitch wouldn't let an opportunity like this slip. She would take advantage of it. She always did.

Mrs. Smith closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to accept the bitter reality.

Fine. If it meant getting Bobby back, she wouldn't fight it. Not this time. Only this time.

Half an hour later, the taxi pulled up in front of a sleek skyscraper. Mrs. Smith stepped out and strode into the vast marble lobby, stopping at the receptionist desk. She barely contained her irritation as she politely requested to meet Mr. Watanabe.

That punk.

For three years now, he had been calling himself Watanabe. His name had been splashed across business magazines, labeled as the most promising young billionaire in IT security.

A new life. A new identity. But Eve knew better.

Akira was still the same genius hacker he had always been. He had just learned how to cash in on his skills this time.

"Eve?!"

A voice called out in disbelief.

She turned toward him, offering a stiff smile.

"Akira."

The 35-year-old man returned her expression, his dark eyes scanning her warily.

"What brings you here?" he asked, getting straight to the point. He knew she wouldn't show up just for a casual visit.

"Can we talk in private?" she said in a low voice.

Akira gave a subtle nod before leading her to a quiet corner of the building. The moment they were alone, Mrs. Smith wasted no time. She told him everything.

By the time she finished, Akira's face had paled.

"Johnson?!" His voice cracked slightly, pure shock washing over his expression.

Mrs. Smith nodded grimly.

"What about the others?" Akira demanded.

"Jordan is on his way to Annabel," she said, nearly spitting out the name. "And I can't contact Yong. His disciple said he's in closed-door meditation."

Mrs. Smith took a step closer, gripping Akira's shoulder.

"Please," she whispered, desperate. "We just need three of us. If you come, Jordan won't have to contact her."

Akira stiffened. His jaw tensed.

She could see the war happening inside him.

Akira had always been the most naive member of their team. The kindest one. That's why he had been so furious when he found out about Jordan and Annabel's affair.

But despite everything… he was still Akira.

After a long, heavy silence, he finally exhaled and nodded.

"Okay." His voice was firm. "I'll come with you, Eve."

Relief crashed over her like a wave.

"Thank you… thank you," she murmured, her voice trembling.

"When do we leave?"

"Now."

Akira sighed but nodded again. "Alright. Wait for me in the lobby. I need to arrange things first. I'll meet you in fifteen minutes." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Don't worry. We'll get Bobby back."

Mrs. Smith barely contained her tears. Akira was still the same good-hearted man.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Smith paced impatiently in the lobby. She couldn't sit. Couldn't stop glancing at her watch every thirty seconds.

Finally, ten minutes early, she spotted Akira emerging from the elevator, a laptop in hand.

"Do you have his number?" Akira asked as they stepped outside.

Mrs. Smith shook her head. "Jordan's the one who spoke to him."

She immediately called her husband.

"Akira needs his number," she said.

A second later, her face fell.

"What? He changes numbers every time he texts you?"

She turned to Akira, her stomach sinking.

Akira frowned. "He's good," he murmured, then opened his laptop. "I'll plant a tracker on Jordan's phone. Next time he calls, I'll trace his location."

Mrs. Smith raised a brow. "You can do that?"

Akira grinned. "Did you forget who I am?"

His fingers flew across the keyboard. Within two minutes, he sat back, satisfied.

"Done. Once he makes contact, my system will track him instantly."

Mrs. Smith released a breath. Finally.

"Let's go," Akira said.

Soon, they arrived at the intersection. The parking building for employees working in the skyscraper was across the street. It wasn't even 3 PM, but the area was already bustling with pedestrians.

Standing among the crowd, Akira and Mrs. Smith waited for the light to change.

Finally, the green signal flashed on.

Just as Akira was about to step onto the crosswalk, his phone vibrated.

He halted, letting Mrs. Smith go ahead while he reached into his pocket, pulling out his cellular. As expected, it was a notification from his hacking system.

He took a step forward, eyes scanning the message.

"My location is..."

His brows furrowed.

"My"?

That was strange.

Before he could process it, another message popped up.

"Next beside you."

His eyes widened.

Heart pounding, Akira snapped his head to the left—

Only to see a shadow drape something over his head.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Smith walked ahead, unaware.

She reached into her bag for her cellular, ready to call her husband. She wanted to tell him not to contact that bitch.

They had Akira.

Everything was going to be fine.

They were sa—

"AAAAAAHHHHH!!"

A long, piercing scream erupted behind her.

Mrs. Smith's stomach twisted.

She spun around.

Another scream. Then another. Gasps. Cries.

People were already gathering, forming a tight circle.

Her breath caught in her throat.

With a rising sense of dread, she pushed her way through the crowd.

The moment her eyes landed on the scene, all color drained from her face.

Her legs buckled.

She collapsed, hitting the pavement in shock.

Just a few meters ahead of her, Akira lay motionless, sprawled in a pool of blood.

His head…

Rested beside his knee.

Completely severed from his body.