C-6

"Get out, boy!" someone barked as Dean kicked the door open with all the force his military training had drilled into him. The door swung wide, as if pushed by unseen hands—likely one of the thugs leaning against it—and in that split second, Dean's eyes fell on the shocking scene before him.

Inside the room, the coffee girl lay sprawled on the cold floor. Her clothes were in tatters, and tears streamed down her face as she shivered uncontrollably. The sight made Dean's blood boil. His mind screamed with the urge to neutralize the criminals instantly, to shoot them down in the forehead if he could, but he forced himself to hold back.

"Get out, boy!" the voice repeated, a gruff command slicing through the tense air. Dean's eyes swept across the room, taking in every unsavory figure present.

"Dude, didn't you hear what he just said?" another thug sneered, his voice thick with derision as he glanced at his cohorts. It was clear these men were nothing more than lowlife criminals pretending to be money doublers, preying on the vulnerable.

The coffee girl, battered by a previous slap, raised her head shakily. Her swollen, broken lips and reddened face testified to the cruelty she'd endured. Even as her eyes met his, her voice came out barely above a whisper, "They… they would hurt you. You should go." She blinked back fresh tears, her tone pleading for mercy.

Dean's jaw tightened, and he stepped further into the room, slamming the door behind him with a resonant thud. "I love the concept of that," he retorted coldly, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he strode forward. "But not on my watch."

A thug, smirking as he crouched beside the coffee girl, taunted, "The only reason you stepped in here is if you want to join us in enjoying this." He reached out, his rough hands trailing along her lap in a disgusting display. The sound of mocking laughter filled the room as the other criminals egged him on.

"Let go of her!" Dean roared, his voice echoing off the walls. His fist clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The thugs' laughter only grew louder, their brownish, crooked teeth bared in cruel amusement.

"What did you just say?" one of them jeered between raucous laughs.

"I said, let go of her!" Dean repeated, his tone low and dangerous—a statement he despised having to make but one that brooked no argument.

"Can't do, knight in shining armor," the thug retorted mockingly as he continued his lewd advances on the coffee girl. Just then, the sharp click of a gun being cocked cut through the clamor like a knife.

"Don't you dare take a step," the man with the gun commanded, leveling his weapon at Dean.

For a moment, Dean raised his hands in a semblance of surrender, though his eyes burned with controlled fury. "Relax, guys," he said, his voice deceptively calm as he eyed the scene. "What do you want from them?"

A battered man sat slumped in a chair at the edge of the room, his appearance hinting at a disturbing resemblance to the coffee girl. It was clear he was related to her, though the nature of that connection was anything but comforting.

"What do you want to do?" the thugs asked in unison, their tone laced with disrespect. Dean's blood simmered at their insolence. He was not accustomed to being talked down to—he was a force to be reckoned with, and he would not tolerate this mockery.

"Maybe help," Dean replied with a derisive shrug, keeping his hands raised as he waited for the man with the gun to lower his weapon.

"You're lucky," one thug said, turning to the beaten man as his gaze returned to Dean.

"We are not letting the girl go, though," declared the man with the gun as he tucked his weapon back into his trousers with a casual gesture. A thin smile played on his lips as he continued, "Her damn brother sold her to us, so we can't let our merchandise go. She's my personal sex toy now." He drawled, licking his lips in a lecherous manner as his eyes practically undressed her.

At these words, Dean's anger surged, his control teetering on the brink. He could barely contain the storm of retribution that swirled within him. "She's mine and mine alone," he thought grimly. His eyes narrowed as he nodded slightly, feigning reluctant acceptance of their twisted logic while formulating his next move.

"He owes us a million dollars; pay up," the thug continued, extending his palm as if presenting a bill. Dean's mind raced as he slowly reached behind his back. With precise, practiced movements, he withdrew a mini spear from its concealed holster and unsheathed it, the weapon elongating ominously in his grip.

The thugs' eyes widened in shock as they scrambled for their weapons, the momentary pause betraying their amateurish skills. In an instant, Dean struck the man who had brazenly referred to the coffee girl as his "personal sex toy." His blow landed squarely across the man's face, shattering his balance and causing him to cry out in pain as he clutched his injured features.

"Ow—!" the man yelped, his voice a mix of shock and agony. Dean didn't wait for a response. He unleashed a relentless barrage of strikes, each one brutal and precise, until the man was reduced to a crumpled heap on the floor.

Before the others could recover, Dean turned his attention to the remaining thugs, now rising with knives drawn. "Is that all you've got?" he challenged, his voice icy with contempt. His movements were a blur—each attack a testament to his training and lethal efficiency. One by one, the criminals fell, groaning in pain as they hit the floor.

When the final thug lay defeated, Dean holstered his spear with a deliberate motion and rushed to the coffee girl's side. He knelt beside her, his tone softening as he addressed her in a rare moment of tenderness. "Are you okay?" he asked, helping her gather the remnants of her torn clothes. His rough hands moved gently as if to erase the horrors she had just endured.

She looked up at him, her emerald-green eyes wide with awe and lingering fear. "This is the second time," she muttered, her voice barely audible, yet heavy with meaning.

Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?" he inquired, his tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

She hesitated for a moment before replying, "This is the second time you've saved me." A small, tentative smile tugged at the corner of her lips despite the pain in her eyes.

Dean allowed himself a brief smirk, the corners of his mouth twitching in an expression that blended pride with exasperation. "Well, you do keep getting into trouble, pretty lady," he said as he helped her to her feet. "Can you stand on your own?" he asked, his eyes searching hers for reassurance.

She nodded slowly, though her legs trembled beneath her. As she steadied herself, Dean scanned the room for any sign of her brother. "Where is he?" he demanded, his voice rising in frustration.

"She's long gone," the coffee girl whispered, her voice trembling with resignation. Dean groaned inwardly—her brother had slipped away, escaping his own reckoning. He knew all too well that his rescue would be incomplete until he taught that man a lesson he would not forget.

Dean's eyes burned with a promise of retribution as he addressed the fallen thugs in the dimly lit room. "You all may think you're untouchable," he spat, his tone low and menacing, "but mark my words—you won't get away with this. Next time, there won't be a second chance."

One of the bruised men managed a sneer as he mumbled, "You think you're the knight in shining armor, Dean? We'll be back." His voice, though weak, carried a challenge.

Dean leaned in close, his face mere inches from the man's, and growled, "Tell that to your faces when I find you next. You'll wish you'd never crossed me." His words were a dire promise, heavy with the weight of inevitable vengeance.

Turning back to the coffee girl, Dean softened his tone further. "You're safe now," he assured her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I won't let anyone hurt you again." His voice, though rough, carried genuine concern as he helped her adjust her clothes.

The coffee girl blinked away a fresh wave of tears and managed a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Dean," she whispered, her voice trembling but sincere.

Dean's eyes locked with hers, and in that charged moment, his final words resonated with both authority and a tender promise. "I'm not done until I find your brother," he declared firmly. "He'll pay for what he's done, and next time, he won't be so lucky to escape."

As the echoes of his challenge filled the room, the subdued murmurs of the subdued criminals and the quiet whimpers of the coffee girl merged into a solemn silence. The only sound that punctuated the darkness was the steady rhythm of Dean's measured breathing—a quiet reminder of the storm he had just unleashed.

In the charged aftermath, one of the surviving thugs, barely conscious, croaked out in a shaky voice, "You… you can't do this to us."

Dean's gaze hardened as he replied, "I already have." His words, cold and final, reverberated through the space like the closing notes of a grim symphony.

Before leaving the room, Dean paused at the doorway, turning back to the coffee girl one last time. "Remember," he said softly, his tone both a promise and a command, "if anyone dares to hurt you, I'll be here. And next time, your brother won't get away."

The coffee girl's eyes glistened with a mix of gratitude and sorrow as she managed to whisper, "Thank you, Dean. I…I'm scared, but I know you'll always protect me."

Dean's reply was firm yet gentle. "No one hurts what's mine," he stated, his voice low and resolute. "You have my word."

As the heavy door closed behind him, the room's tension gradually ebbed away, leaving behind only the echo of their final exchange—a dialogue that promised justice, retribution, and above all, protection.

"Stay safe," the coffee girl called softly as the sound of Dean's footsteps faded into the corridor.

"Don't worry," Dean answered over his shoulder, his final words a vow in the dark, "I'll be back—and next time, your brother won't be so lucky."