24. The Devil in Disguise

Silence stretched through the lounge like a tangible force, thick and suffocating.

Mila's breath hitched, her fingers gripping the edge of the table so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a sharp, almost painful rhythm.

What… the hell… did she just witness?

Her wide eyes locked onto Rowan's bloodied hand, the crimson streaks sliding down his fingers, dripping onto the floor. He had caught the blade barehanded.

No flinching. No hesitation.

She had always known Rowan was strong—flexible, fast, sharper than any bartender had the right to be. She had watched him handle drunk customers, how his sharp reflexes helped with the drinks, and how he had complete control over his surroundings.

But this? This was something else.

This wasn't just skill. This was terrifying.

Selene and Loraine, usually unshakable, stood frozen, their sharp exteriors fracturing for the first time. These were women who had trained in self-defense, and who could take down men twice their size. But even they had limits.

They had never moved as Rowan did. No wasted motion, no unnecessary effort. His every action had been absolute—brutal and precise as if he had done this a thousand times before.

Loraine's lips parted slightly, but no words came out. A flicker of something passed through her usually composed expression. Recognition? Unease? Maybe both.

Selene's arms were still crossed, but she wasn't relaxed anymore. Her nails dug faintly into her sleeves, her icy-blue eyes locked onto Rowan like she was seeing him for the first time. Like she had just realized he wasn't the kind of man you wanted to make an enemy.

Then there was Samir.

He let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly at the tips. His mind raced to process what just happened, but the answer was clear—Rowan wasn't normal.

He wasn't just skilled. He was something else entirely.

Samir had always considered himself a decent fighter. He could easily handle himself in a situation while fighting with more than one person. But watching Rowan?

It was like watching a predator among prey.

There was no hesitation in his movements. No unnecessary aggression. Just clean, merciless efficiency.

And that was the scariest part.

Rowan hadn't looked angry. He hadn't even looked bothered.

A slow chill crept down Samir's spine. What kind of life had Rowan lived to move like that?

What the hell was he hiding?

On the other side, the gang members hesitated, their bravado faltering. Something about Rowan unsettled them.

But their leader, gritted his teeth watching his men taking a step back in fear and, barked out a laugh. "Tch… acting tough? You think you can take all of us?"

Rowan sighed, finally straightening. His gaze, once indifferent, turned ice cold.

Without a word, he began unbuttoning his shirt.

The movement was slow and deliberate.

Rowan slipped the fabric off his shoulders, revealing lean, well-defined muscle beneath. He folded the shirt neatly before placing it on the table, completely unbothered by the chaos around him.

Then, stretching his arms, his shoulder clicked, sending a chill down everyone's spine.

The Steel Vipers gang leader scowled. "This motherfucker…"

One of the gang members, face twisted with rage, snapped.

"You arrogant son of a bitch!" He roared, his voice shaking with fury.

Then he lunged at Rowan.

The steel pipe whistled through the air, swinging at full force, aimed directly at Rowan's ribs.

But Rowan was already gone.

Before the thug could even blink, Rowan closed the distance in a single breath. His feet had barely moved, his body moving with ghost-like precision.

The thug's pupils shrunk in pure disbelief.

What?!

His swing hadn't even finished, and yet—Rowan was already there.

Samir inhaled sharply, his entire body tensing.

Holy shit. He's fast.

The steel pipe descended but Rowan caught it.

He trapped it between his forearm and biceps alongside the thug's wrist, locking it in place like a steel vice. He then quickly twisted it. The force of the it sent tremors through the thug's entire arm. His veins bulged and his muscles strained.

The thug's face twisted in shock

How…?

Rowan didn't even flinch. His expression remained calm and unmoved.

And then, he moved. His free hand shot forward, lightning-fast, fingers clamping around the thug's skull like a vice-like grip.

And then, with brutal efficiency. Rowan slammed his head down straight into the table.

CRACK!

The sickening sound of bone shattering against wood ripped through the air.

The entire lounge winced.

Blood splattered across the polished surface, staining the mahogany in a messy streak of red.

The thug's body twitched once and then he went limp. His arms slackened, his legs gave out, and his entire body collapsed like a ragdoll. He hit the floor face-first, a weak, broken groan leaving his lips before he went completely still.

Unconscious.

Then came the silence.

Heavy and drenched in disbelief.

Rowan straightened, flicking his wrist as if nothing had happened.

The gang members stared in disbelief.

Selene and Loraine couldn't hide their shock.

Monica muttered under her breath, "That… was insane."

But Rowan wasn't done.

The remaining gang members snapped out of their daze, their rage boiling over.

"KILL HIM!"

The leader of the group roared in fury, his voice thick with desperation. His heart pounded like a war drum.

If I step back now, how the hell will I show my face around this neighborhood?!

How could he explain this to the boss?

That a single man—one fucking bartender—had humiliated him?

Unacceptable!

No. Rowan had to die.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!" He bellowed, spitting blood onto the floor.

"KILL HIM!"

The rest of the Steel Vipers snapped into action, weapons raised, eyes blazing with fury.

They rushed forward, bodies moving like a storm of violence and rage.

Rowan's lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. Not a single trace of fear on his face. He shifted his stance and rolled his shoulders, stretching his muscles.

They had no idea what they were walking into.

The first swung a knife, aiming straight for Rowan's gut.

Rowan tilted his body slightly to the left, the blade barely grazing his skin.

Before the thug could react, Rowan's fist slammed into his nose with a strong force.

Crunch!

Blood gushed instantly.

The man's vision blurred as a sharp palm strike followed, landing directly on his throat.

Gagging and choking—he stumbled back, eyes wide with terror.

Before he could even hit the floor, Rowan had already moved on.

The second attacker lunged with a pipe.

Rowan grabbed the first thug by his head and pulled him back.

The steel pipe connected but now with Rowan. It was right against his ally's skull.

The force dropped the man instantly.

The attacker, horrified, barely had time to react before Rowan's leg shot forward—burying itself into his gut.

The impact lifted him off the ground, air violently expelled from his lungs before he crashed onto his back, groaning.

The gang members cursed and screamed, trying to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

But Rowan didn't stop moving.

He was like a force of nature. An untamed beast. A predator on the hunt.

His every movement was flawless. His strikes weren't just strong—they were terrifyingly precise.

Bones cracked... Flesh bruised... Blood splattered...

He was ruthless and almost unstoppable.

The gang members couldn't keep up.

Every time they swung, he was already gone.

Every time they tried to block, he broke through.

Every time they thought they had a chance, he put them down.

In less than five minutes, twenty men lay sprawled across the floor—groaning, coughing, clutching broken bones and bruised ribs.

The VIP lounge, once filled with laughter and conversation, was now a war zone.

The scent of sweat, blood, and fear hung heavy in the air.

Mila, Monica, and Natalie were speechless.

Mila's heart slammed against her ribs. Her breathing was uneven, her hands still gripping the table, as if letting go would send her crashing to the floor. What… what the hell did I just witness?

Monica swallowed hard, her usually sharp tongue stunned into silence. Her eyes darted between the bloodstains on the floor and Rowan's calm, unreadable expression.

What kind of man can do this… and look so damn relaxed?

Natalie, normally quiet, felt a deep, uneasy chill creep down her spine.

Rowan wasn't just strong. He wasn't just fast.

He was beyond dangerous.

Selene exhaled sharply, gripping her glass so tightly her knuckles turned white. This isn't just skill. This isn't just training.

This is experience.

Real, Raw, and Lethal experience.

She had seen men fight before.

But Rowan?

He is on another level entirely.

Samir, still standing, let out a sharp breath. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes locked on Rowan, mind struggling to process what he had just seen.

"This is like a fucking action movie," He muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

But this wasn't a movie.

This was real.

And Rowan?

He wasn't the hero. He was like a nightmare.

Rowan's gaze finally locked onto the gang leader.

The man spat blood, brass knuckles gleaming under the dim light as he raised his fists.

"Come on, asshole," He growled. "Let's see if you're really that good."

Rowan sighed, bored. "If you insist."

The fight was pathetic.

The gang leader swung—Rowan dodged.

Another strike—Rowan sidestepped effortlessly.

A desperate punch—Rowan's fist collided with his face.

Once... Twice... Thrice...

After six direct hits straight to his face, the man was barely standing.

His face was a bloody mess with missing teeth and a broken nose.

Rowan delivered one final punch and the man collapsed, leaving only three men.

The three who were responsible for everything.

As Rowan approached, they stumbled backward, fear finally setting in.

"Stay back!" One shrieked. "Do you even know who we are?! Our fathers will ruin you!"

Rowan smirked. "That so?"

He adjusted their collars, fixing their suits with an almost polite touch.

Mila and the others blinked in confusion.

W-What is he doing?

The three thugs, however, took it as a sign of submission. Their arrogance returned.

"That's right, bitch," One of them sneered. "You know your place—"

Rowan's foot buried itself into his crotch.

CRACK!

The thug screamed. His body lifted into the air for a solid two feet before crashing onto the ground face-first.

The other two went pale.

Rowan cracked his knuckles. "You guys still talking?"

They didn't even get the chance before two more groans of agony echoed into the lounge.

Rowan snorted, looking down at the broken bodies of the three bastards.

"Women aren't toys," He murmured, voice ice cold. "If I ever see you disrespecting one again—"

He tilted his head slightly.

"Well…"

He stepped back, leaving them whimpering in pain. He then grabbed his shirt, slipping it back on casually.

Turning to the others, he asked with his usual calm smile.

"Anyone else needs a drink?"

But no one spoke.