18) Raptor (4)

The air in Barranquilla hung thick and heavy, a wet blanket of heat and the smell of the nearby Caribbean Sea mixed with diesel fumes and something indefinably tropical – decay and vibrant life intertwined. I'd been here for three days, eyes scanning, senses stretched thin beneath the humid surface of my skin. Three days of chasing shadows, navigating crowded plazas and labyrinthine alleys, my enhanced body a coiled spring beneath unassuming clothes.

He was hiding, not running. Hiding somewhere he thought I wouldn't look, somewhere far and forgotten. He was wrong. My rage was a compass, and it pointed straight to the source.

The address led me to a run-down apartment building, peeling paint and laundry strung like colorful prayer flags between balconies. It reeked of stale cooking oil and desperation. Normal life. The kind he'd stolen from me.

I moved through the building like a whisper, each step silent on the cracked tile. My body was an instrument of precision now, thanks to him. Irony was a bitter pill, one he'd forced down my throat.

Third floor. Apartment 3B. The door was cheap wood, easily breached. I didn't bother with finesse. A single, controlled impact from my shoulder would splinter the frame. But I wanted him to know. To hear the world breaking before I stepped into his pathetic hiding place.

I kicked the door inward. It screeched on its hinges and slammed against the wall.

He was sitting at a small, rickety table, nursing a bottle of local beer. Riley. Older, thinner, lines of fear etched around his eyes even before he saw me. His hair was graying at the temples, his shoulders slumped. He didn't look like the man who had played God in a sterile, white lab. He looked… small.

His eyes snapped to the door, then widened in pure, unadulterated terror. The beer bottle clattered to the floor, spilling amber liquid onto the stained concrete.

"D-Damon?" His voice was a broken croak.

I didn't speak. My throat felt tight, choked with years of unshed tears and corrosive anger. I stepped into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me, plunging the small space into a tense, shadowed silence broken only by my breathing and his ragged gasps.

He scrambled back from the table, fumbling at his waistband. I saw the glint of metal – a pistol. A tiny thing against what stood before him. A human against a storm.

"Stay back!" he stammered, holding the gun with trembling hands. His knuckles were white. "I'll shoot!"

A low sound rumbled in my chest. Laughter? Or something else? Something primal. Shoot me? He had experimented on me for months, twisting my very biology, turning me into this… thing.

I took a step forward. He fired.

The shot was deafening in the small apartment. A searing flash, a sharp crack. The bullet hit my chest.

It didn't do much.

It felt like a hard punch, dulling quickly to a bruise under my skin. My enhanced durability shrugged it off. The pain was negligible compared to the constant ache of loss in my gut or the phantom echoes of my wife and daughter that haunted me every waking second.

Riley stared, his eyes glued to the spot where the bullet had struck, disbelief warring with terror. He fired again, faster this time, a frantic, panicked burst. Another thud against me. Nothing.

He emptied the clip. Four more impacts. I didn't flinch. I kept walking, slow, deliberate steps that ate up the distance between us.

When the gun clicked empty, Riley finally broke. He dropped the useless weapon and turned to flee, a whimpering sound escaping his lips.

He didn't make it to the door.

My body anticipated his movement. My muscles coiled, then unleashed. Agility. Speed. I was across the room in a blur, faster than his terrified mind could process.

I didn't use the blades yet. That was for later. For his final moments. I didn't need them for this preamble. My fists, my feet, my raw strength were more than enough.

I caught him by the arm, spinning him around. He screamed. Not a human scream, a high-pitched shriek of pure animal terror. I hit him. A single punch to the gut. The air exploded from his lungs in a wet cough. He doubled over, gasping, clutching his stomach.

I followed up with a knee to the chest. The crack was sickening. Ribs. He crumpled to the floor, a broken heap.

He tried to crawl away, whimpering, leaving a trail of saliva and something else darker on the grimy floor.

I grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him back towards the center of the room. He clawed at the floor, leaving scrape marks. "No! Damon, please! I didn't... I didn't mean to..."

Lies. Pathetic, desperate lies. He knew exactly what he did. What his experiments did. He knew.

I kicked him in the side. Hard. Another crack. More whimpering. He tried to curl into a ball, protecting his head. Strength. It wasn't just about hitting hard. It was about controlling the impact, the pressure. I needed him alive. Barely, but alive. The Rose wanted him.

I lifted him easily by the tattered collar of his shirt, despite his struggles. His face was a mask of pain and terror, streaming with tears and snot. "Why?" I finally spoke, my voice low and guttural, rough from disuse and the weight of my fury. "Why my family, Riley?" He choked, unable to form words, just gasping pleas. "My wife... my son... they were burned alive because of you!" My grip tightened, lifting him higher until his toes dangled inches above the floor. "Your goddamn experiments! Your reckless ambition!"

I slammed him back against the wall. His head hit with a sickening thud. His eyes rolled back, but he stayed conscious. I needed him conscious. I hit him again. And again. Not with the full force of my enhanced body – that would have turned him to pulp. But with calculated brutality. Punches to the face, the body, the limbs. Breaking bones, tearing flesh. Each blow a release, a small chip knocked off the immense block of ice around my heart.

Blood splattered the wall behind him. His nose was a pulped mess, his mouth split, his body bruised and twisted at unnatural angles. He was a ruin of a man, broken and bleeding, barely clinging to life.

This was far from killing him, though. This was just softening him up. Preparing him.

I stopped when I judged he was weak enough, broken enough, but still clinging to that precious spark of life. He slid down the wall, collapsing into a heap at my feet, making small, pathetic sounds. He looked like death warmed over, but he was breathing. Just.

Binding him was simple. Ripped curtains, his own belt. Restrained enough that his broken body wouldn't go anywhere.

Then, I waited. Listened. Heard the distant sounds of the city, the closer sound of Riley's ragged breathing. Waited for the signal. My boss, The Rose, was precise. He had his own ways of knowing when the job was done.