The Ambush

"Are you hurt?"

Jake Leung didn't expect Ethan to check in personally.

"Just a scratch, nothing serious!"

Ethan's voice turned cold with fury:

"Damn those Terra Crew bastards. Wounding one of my lieutenants?"

"Jake, you're off duty tomorrow. Get some rest."

Then he dropped a message into the main chat group:

"Everyone fought well tonight. You'll be rewarded."

"Anyone who joined the raid gets two full rations tomorrow."

"Jake Leung, who was injured in action, gets the day off plus a deluxe braised pork bowl."

The chat exploded.

Eight people had died, sure.

But at this point?

Death was just background noise.

What mattered was food.

And Jake was about to eat something they hadn't tasted in weeks.

Real meat.

"All hail Ethan!"

"That pork bowl is mine next time!"

"Screw dying—I want braised pork!"

Ethan had said what needed to be said.

Now it was time to reclaim the streets.

—

The next morning, Ethan suited up.

Helmet. Armored vest. Makeshift bulletproof pants.

He wasn't taking chances.

He was going to scout a few hotels and shopping centers—see what else was worth salvaging.

Climbing out from the fourth floor, he noticed something strange.

The snow was blood-streaked.

"We've had a lot of action lately…"

He shook the thought away and retrieved his snowmobile.

As the engine roared to life, he felt it again—that creeping sense of being watched.

High above, behind dark windows and icy curtains…

Eyes.

Lots of them.

Ethan raised his head and scanned the towers of Crestview Heights.

Some of those faces? Would be corpses soon.

And as his gaze drifted to a building marked with a faded 21, a chill ran down his spine.

"Wait…"

"Building 21… Wolf Pack…"

He narrowed his eyes.

"That's what's off."

The Wolf Pack's building was close—almost too close.

And yet, they'd done nothing.

No threats. No outreach. No ambush.

"That doesn't fit."

Young, aggressive guys?

With that kind of temptation—Ethan's mobility, his resources—they should've made a move.

But they hadn't.

That could only mean one thing.

"They're planning something."

"And they want it to be quiet."

Ethan patted his jacket.

Handgun? Check.

Rifles in the dimensional space? Loaded. Primed.

He pulled out his phone and messaged Dr. Chloe and Uncle Ray:

"Lock the door. Don't open for anyone. Could be movement soon."

Then he zipped up, tucked the phone away, and hit the throttle.

As he neared the edge of the complex—

Boom.

The snow exploded ahead.

A slab of wood—maybe a door—sprang up like a trap barrier.

Ethan yanked the handlebars hard.

"Shit!"

Crash!

The snowmobile clipped the door, flipping sideways.

Two figures hiding beneath the snow were flung into the air.

They'd rigged the trap using rope and snow cover.

Problem was—it was amateur hour.

The door was too light. The snow too shallow.

Instead of trapping Ethan, they'd launched themselves like clowns out of a cannon.

Classic TV logic. Zero real-world physics.

Before he could finish that thought, seven more figures burst out of the snow—screaming, weapons drawn, charging.

Ethan breathed in deep. Cold air stung his lungs. Good. He needed to be sharp.

He reached into his coat, pulled out the pistol, clicked off the safety.

They were already on him.

Bang.Bang.Bang.

Three shots. Three corpses.

Headshots. All of them.

That left four.

One of them was already mid-swing—a machete raised above Ethan's head.

Too late.

Ethan pivoted. Brought the gun right into the guy's mouth.

The man froze—eyes wide.

Bang.

Blood. Everywhere.

The other attackers froze in place.

One man had just shoved a barrel down another's throat and pulled the trigger like it was Tuesday.

"Who the hell is this guy?"

"What the f— is he made of?!"

Ethan didn't wait.

Two more shots.

Two more bodies hit the snow.

The last three?

Ran.

Ethan lined up a shot—

Paused.

Smiled.

He bit down on the grip, kept the gun in his teeth, and hit the throttle.

The engine roared.

The fleeing men could barely crawl through the snow.

It wasn't running.

It was scrambling for survival.

Ethan bore down on the last one.

Crash.

The snowmobile hit him hard.

Then kept going.

Crunch.

Four hundred kilos of steel and fury rolled over the man's back—then his skull.

The scream?

Like a pig being slaughtered in a blizzard.

The others heard it.

They didn't look back.

They ran—harder.

Because they knew:

Ethan Cross wasn't human.