Chapter Two-Hundred Seventy-Three: The Final Act of Rutherford Jones

Chapter 273

The Final Act of Rutherford Jones

The bubble containing Sully hovered over the abandoned theme park: The Grand Pavilion of Wonders.

The sphere’s iridescent surface suddenly hummed with a high-pitched vibration, then snapped. With a sound like a wet towel hitting wood, the bubble vanished into a fine mist. Sully plummeted, his arms flailing against the humid air, until he slammed into the cracked asphalt of the midway. A cloud of ancient dust rose around him, coating his pressed shirt in a layer of gray grime.

He groaned as he pushed himself up; the silence of the park felt heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic clank of a loose shutter hitting a ticket booth. The signs of the arcade, long dead, loomed like skeletons in the twilight. He wiped his face, feeling the sting of a scrape, and that’s when he saw the movement in the periphery of his vision.

Out from the jagged shadows of the “Tilt-A-Whirl” stepped four small-statured figures, clad in leather harnesses, collars, and hot pants. Each carried a distinct weapon: one wielded a cat o’ nine tails, another held twin electrorods, a third brandished a paddle, and the last gripped a feather tickler. With wide eyes catching the pale moonlight, they cast menacing sneers toward Sully.

Sully: “Now you four wait just a minute there—”

He screamed as one of them shocked him with the twin electrorods, and he hit the ground with a mighty thud. He convulsed when he hit the asphalt. The small people surrounded him, tearing off his clothes. Sully screamed in protest when they tore off his shirt, pulled off his shoes and socks, and tore off his pants and boxers.

Sully: “What are you animals doing?! Stop this now!”

He ordered. One of the figures promptly fastened a collar around his neck, using a strap connected from it to leather cuffs to lock his wrists in place, before binding his ankles tightly together. Sully gnashed his teeth and glowered.

Sully: “How dare you?! I am the mayor of this city!”

He snapped and thrashed around.

The figure holding the feather tickler stepped forward. With a mocking grin, he knelt by Sully’s bound ankles. The soft, colorful feathers danced just inches away from his soles. Sully’s eyes went wide, his heels digging into the gritty asphalt as he tried to pull away from the impending contact.

Sully: “Don’t you dare! Untie me this instant, you delinquents!”

Ignoring his command, the dwarf began to sweep the tickler across the arches of his feet rhythmically. Sully’s body jerked violently, the leather cuffs straining against his wrists as he thrashed. A strangled mixture of a gasp and a shout escaped him, his face flushing a deep crimson in the moonlight. He bucked and twisted, but the restraints held firm, leaving him completely vulnerable to the relentless, light sensation.

Sully: “I’ll have the precinct—stop!—the whole force down here! Release me!”

He barked, his voice cracking. Every time he attempted a dignified glare, a fresh pass of the feathers sent another jolt through his system, forcing him to writhe against the cracked pavement of the abandoned midway.

The whip cracked against his backside, delivered by the small-statured attacker, forcing a painful grunt and bark from Sully.

Sully: “STOP THIS NOW!”

He bellowed.

Hearing approaching footsteps, they paused as Narcisse and Balderico came into view. Balderico was clad in a navy Italian-cut suit with a light blue vest, crisp white shirt, white silk cravat, and brown loafers, while clutching a GI Joe rubber duck. Meanwhile, Sully panted heavily.

Sully: “Balderico Belloni… I should have known, you sleazy bastard!”

He rasped.

Balderico: “Nice seeing you like this, Sully. You needed to really loosen up, my friend.”

Sully: “Loosen up? You call this loosening up, you sick bastard?! I’ll have your head on a platter for this—and don’t think that accomplice is going to save you from the consequences of this kidnapping!”

He thundered as he thrashed against his bonds. Two of the small people held Sully’s arms back, one held his hair, and the one stepped forward with a grin, tickling his torso with a feather.

The colorful plume danced across his ribs, a torturous contrast to the cold, authoritative tone he had used at the precinct only hours before. Sully’s chest heaved, his bare skin prickling under the light, maddening sweep of the feathers.

Every time he tried to summon a roar of mayoral outrage, his breath hitched into a high, involuntary wheeze that betrayed his helplessness. He was a man who commanded the city’s respect, now reduced to a frantic, bucking mess on the asphalt, his dignified facade crumbling under a sensation so delicate it was agonizing. His muscles corded with the effort to remain still, but the relentless tickling bypassed his willpower, forcing his body into a series of jagged, rhythmic jolts that made the leather restraints creak.

Narcisse bit his bottom lip, and Balderico beamed.

Narcisse: “Tell me your little BDSM crew of midgets will do that to my nephew…”

He purred and hardened. Balderico flicked his gaze down to Narcisse’s boner and rolled his eyes.

Balderico: “Of course. I have a few more to keep him entertained, but for now… The real fun starts for our dear mayor.”

The seven-foot-tall gimp stomped on the ground and stood over Sully. Sully’s breath hitched, and his jaw tightened.

Balderico: “Come along, Mr. Mayor. We have a deal to make.”

The gimp grabbed Sully by his collar and hoisted him over his shoulder as they walked to the funhouse. Narcisse looked up at the two moons and grinned.

~

The gimp trudged past the decaying ticket stalls toward the “Empire Cinema,” a grand, Art Deco structure with a marquee that listed only missing letters. He kicked the double doors open, the wood groaning on rusted hinges, and carried the bound, naked mayor into the oppressive darkness of the auditorium.

With a grunt of exertion, the seven-foot-tall figure swung Sully off his shoulder and threw him forcefully into a front-row seat. The rotted velvet upholstery let out a dejected puff of dust as Sully slammed into it, his bound ankles hitting the floorboards with a sharp crack.

Sully: “You can’t—oof!—you can’t just leave me here like a piece of refuse!”

He gasped, trying to right himself in the narrow seat. The gimp leaned down, his masked face inches from Sully’s, and pointed a heavy, gloved finger toward the dusty stage. He didn’t speak, but the menacing stillness of his posture conveyed the command clearly: stay put.

Sully swallowed hard, his bravado momentarily failing him as the gimp turned and vanished back into the lobby shadows, leaving the mayor alone in the suffocating silence of the theater.

Balderico smiled and clamped his hands on his shoulders.

Balderico: “Glad you came in on time to see the movie, Mr. Mayor.”

Sully glared at him.

Sully: “You sick bastard, when I get free—”

Clamping his hand onto Sully’s jaw, he squeezed his cheeks tightly until his lips puffed out.

Balderico: “If you don’t want that big idiot to hurt your precious Scarlett, you will do nothing, and you WILL agree to my requests. Capisce?”

Sully’s resistance slowly turned to fear. Balderico clamped his hand over Sully’s jaw and the top of his head, forcing him to watch the big screen.

His blue eyes widened in fear when he saw Rutherford standing over Scarlett.

Sully: “S-Scarlett?!”

He sobbed.

Balderico: “Whenever I make a bribe, Mr. Mayor, you’re going to take it. If you don’t, he will go further.”

He smiled at him. Sully wailed and thrashed against his bonds.

Sully: “DON’T YOU DARE HARM HER! IF YOU NEED TO HARM SOMEONE, DO IT TO ME!”

He screamed. Balderico smiled at Rutherford looming over Scarlett. Suddenly, the screen went blank. He swung his eyes to the gimp, who merely shrugged. Balderico’s smile faded.

Sully: “If anything happens to her, Balderico, I will make you pay, and you will NEVER get anything you want!”

He rasped through hot, burning tears.

Balderico: “Put this idiot in the cage. I have somewhere I need to be.”

He said tersely as he marched out, ignoring Sully’s crying and screaming.

~

Outside the immediate chaos of the midway, Tristan stepped cautiously onto the grounds, his wingtip Oxfords crunching against gravel and broken glass. The twilight cast long, distorted shadows across the skeletons of the roller coasters, their once-vibrant tracks now choked with ivy and peeling paint.

He paused. The silence here was absolute, a heavy shroud that seemed to swallow the city sounds beyond the perimeter. To his left, the carousel horses stared with vacant, chipped eyes, their wooden limbs frozen in mid-gallop. As Tristan moved deeper into the park, toward the flickering, rhythmic thudding coming from the midway. He knew Narcisse was here and he planned something sinister.

A sharp whistle pierced the silence as Tristan hit the walkway’s midpoint. Before he could react, two heavy metal spheres linked by a coarse, thick rope flew from the shadows. The weapon struck him hard, its rope wrapping around his torso, arms, and legs in a rapid blur. Pinning his arms firmly to his sides and cinching tightly across his chest, the binding snapped taut with jarring force. With his momentum abruptly halted and his body completely immobilized, Tristan stumbled and crashed to the ground.

Tristan bared his teeth and grunted as he thrashed against his bonds. Four shadows loomed over him. His green eyes slowly looked up to see the four small people grinning menacingly at him.

One of the small figures stepped forward, clutching the feather tickler with a malicious grin. He knelt beside Tristan, who was still struggling against the tight ropes. With a slow, deliberate motion, the figure dragged the soft plume across the sensitive skin of Tristan’s neck. His eyes widened, and he let out a sharp, involuntary gasp followed by a laugh, his head snapping back as he tried to pull away from the ticklish sensation, but the bindings held him fast.

Tristan: “HahahahahahahaHAHAHAAHAHAHA!”

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders to protect his neck from being tickled.

Ignoring his attempts to shield himself, two of the figures set to work on his feet. They quickly unlaced his wingtip Oxfords and tossed them aside before peeling off his sheer dress socks, leaving his feet completely bare and vulnerable in the cool night air. Tristan gasped, his toes curling instinctively against the sudden exposure.

Tristan: “Wh-What on Reona do you think you’re doing?!”

The figure with the feather tickler followed suit, abandoning Tristan’s neck to kneel at his feet. With a predatory grin, he began to drag the soft, colorful plume in slow, rhythmic circles across the sensitive arches and soles of Tristan’s feet. The contact was light but agonizingly effective. Tristan’s body bucked against the ropes, his legs jerking as a fresh wave of intense, high-pitched laughter exploded from his lungs.

Tristan: “NO! HAHAHA—STOP! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOT THEHEHEHEHEHEHERE! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

He wailed, his voice echoing through the decaying park. The feathers danced relentlessly over his skin, bypassing every ounce of his self-control and reducing the normally composed man to a writhing, hysterical mess on the gravel.

Tristan: “PLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEASE!! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

The tickling with the feather stopped. Tristan panted wildly, and his eyes fluttered as tears dripped from his green eyes.

One of the other figures reached into a leather pouch on their harness and pulled out a battery-operated toothbrush. With a sharp click, they switched it on. The high-pitched, mechanical buzz cut through the park’s heavy silence, a stark contrast to the rhythmic creaking of the nearby rides.

Tristan’s eyes darted to the vibrating device, his breath hitching as the figure leaned closer to his exposed, vulnerable soles. The moment the vibrating head made contact with the sensitive arch of his left foot, a fresh, even more violent jolt surged through his entire frame. The intense, oscillating sensation was more localized and unrelenting than the feathers, sending a chaotic barrage of signals to his brain.

Tristan: "AHAHAHAHAHA! NO! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO! THAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAT’S ENOHOHOHOHOGH!! HAHAHAHAHA!"

He thrashed against the coarse ropes, his muscles straining as he bucked and twisted on the gravel. The vibrating hum against his bare skin forced a hysterical, uncontrollable scream of laughter from his lungs, his face contorting as he desperately tried to escape the buzzing torture that now raked across both his soles.

Tristan: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

The sensation was overwhelming. The rapid mechanical pulses vibrated directly through the skin, sending sharp shockwaves of electricity-like ticklishness up his calves. Tristan arched his back, gasping for air as a fresh torrent of breathless, bright laughter exploded through the midway. His knuckles turned bone-white behind his back, his long fingers curling tightly into fists.

Tristan: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! ÇAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA SUFFIT!!”

The humming brush traced a slow, agonizing path down the tender hollow of his arch, pausing in the center to vibrate in intense, dizzying circles. Tristan threw his head back, tears of laughter spilling past his fluttering eyelashes as his shoulders shook uncontrollably.

Tristan: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHA!!”

Ignoring his pleas, the small person dragged the buzzing bristles all the way up to the delicate spaces between his toes. Tristan curled his toes instinctively, which only trapped the vibrating bristles against the ultra-sensitive skin, redoubling the torment. The other three broke into delighted applause, lightly tapping their fingers against his other bare sole to orchestrate a complete symphony of helpless, high-pitched hysterics.

Tristan: “GOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOD!! JE NEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

The mechanical hum died instantly as the figure clicked the toothbrush off. The small attackers froze, their heads snapping toward the darkened midway entrance as a rhythmic, heavy tread echoed against the abandoned park walls. Tristan, his chest still heaving with jagged breaths and his bare soles prickling from the lingering vibration, squinted through his tears toward the approaching shadow.

Out of the gloom stepped Narcisse, his expression unreadable under the pale moonlight. He walked with a calculated grace, the soles of his loafers striking the cracked asphalt with the authority of a man who owned the night. The four figures scrambled backward, clearing a path and bowing their heads in a silent show of deference as their employer’s partner-in-crime neared his nephew.

Tristan’s eyes fluttered, and tears dripped down his cheeks. His eyes burned with fury when he saw Narcisse.

Tristan: “Y-YOU!”

Narcisse: “Why did you midgets stop tickling him? I never said to stop…!”

He scowled at them.

Narcisse: “Unless… You want me to continue.”

He grinned.

Tristan: “GET AWAY FROM ME!!”

He screamed, violently thrashing against his bonds.

Narcisse knelt to Tristan, grabbed his jaw, and kissed him deeply. Tristan screamed in his mouth, trying to get away. He jerked his head back away from Narcisse.

Gritting his teeth, Tristan closed his eyes and reached deep into the core of his being, desperate to manifest a surge of cryokinetic energy. He pushed his will toward the coarse ropes binding his chest and limbs. A thin frost began to bloom on the gravel, but the moment his power touched the restraints, the specialized metallic fibers woven into the rope glowed a lethal, neon blue. A massive surge of electric current roared through the bonds and slammed into Tristan’s body.

Tristan: “AUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGHHHHH!!!”

His frame arched violently, muscles locking in a painful spasm as the voltage feedback canceled his abilities in a shower of sparks, leaving him gasping.

Narcisse stood over him. He watched with a cold, clinical smirk as the last of the blue electricity danced across Tristan’s skin, leaving the younger man’s muscles twitching in the gravel.

Narcisse chuckled, a low, rasping sound that was swallowed by the creaking machinery of the nearby carousel. He reached down, his fingers brushing against Tristan’s temple with terrifying lightness.

Narcisse: “So pretty…”

With a sudden, effortless surge of strength, Narcisse hauled his nephew upward. He hoisted Tristan’s limp, weakened frame over his shoulder like a discarded sack of flour, the coarse ropes digging into his own designer suit. He slapped Tristan’s ass. Tristan grunted and panted furiously.

Narcisse: “Go find his friends. I know they’re here—at least some of them. I’m going to have some fun with my naughty nephew.”

He barked the command at the four small figures, who scrambled to attention, their leather harnesses jingling. Narcisse began a steady, rhythmic march away from them in the direction of a weathered “tunnel of love” sign.

~

Fabien and Jaxon made their way through the desolate grounds of the abandoned park. Fabien wore a denim jacket over a “Nuklear Intoxikation Sucks” tank top, paired with straight-leg jeans and flip-flops, smoking a joint as they walked. Beside him, Jaxon wore a button-down shirt with a crowded, all-over grayscale graphic print, paired with black leather trousers and Chelsea boots. Jaxon embraced himself.

The two men walked past a drive-in. Georgia’s Girl Drive-In had long since surrendered to the encroaching thicket, drowning beneath a slow tide of kudzu and wild brush. Rust bled down the vintage silhouette on the marquee, her painted smile faded into something mournful and spectral under the nocturnal calm. Below, the weathered awning sagged over a cracked, weed-choked lot where cars hadn’t idled in decades. A solitary service lamp flickered with an amber, dying breath, casting frail warmth against the mossy posts.

Fabien: “Wanna grab a bite?”

He asked wryly.

Jaxon: “Yeah, you would be hungry smoking that shit!”

He hissed.

Jaxon: “There’s nothing in there, dummy!”

He huffed.

Fabien: “Relax, Jiro. It’s a joke.”

He said, taking in another drag.

They strolled past dilapidated remains of waterslides. Below a canopy of palm trees that whispered of distant, happier memories, the water-slide complex rose like strange, derelict sentinels against the deep indigo sky. The primary attraction, a steep, multi-lane blue slide, cut a sharp line toward the star-dusted sky, its painted surface weathered and stained. To its left, a yellow slide, once a vibrant tube of color, now gaped like an old, rust-pitted pipe.

On the right, a simple green flume curved toward the ground, its own patina telling stories of thousands of joyful plunges, now silenced. Below them all, the pool was not water but a vast, silent mirror, holding the image of the structures and the palms with eerie perfection. The only sounds were the wind rustling through the fronds and the footsteps of Fabien’s flip-flops and Jaxon’s boots.

Fabien: “Wanna go for a dip?”

He snorted.

Jaxon: “Wanna shut the fuck up for FIVE MINUTES?!”

He bellowed at him. Fabien just chuckled, the tip of his joint glowing a bright, defiant orange against the indigo shadows.

They stood at the edge of the pool, the stagnant water so still it looked like a sheet of obsidian. The park’s silence pressed in on them, thick and heavy, until a series of slow, rhythmic ripples began to distort their reflections.

A massive, prehistoric shape broke the surface with the sound of a heavy sigh. A gargantuan alligator, its hide scarred and crusted with decades of stagnant muck, rose slowly from the depths. Its eyes caught the pale moonlight, glowing with a faint, predatory amber as it fixed its gaze on the two men. The tension in the air snapped like a dry branch; the creature looked less like an animal and more like a relic of a forgotten era, a silent sentinel of the park’s decay. Fabien froze, the joint slipping from his fingers and hissing as it hit the wet concrete, while Jaxon’s breath hitched, his boots rooted to the spot as the beast’s massive snout leveled with the pool’s edge.

Jaxon: “YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARHHHH!! CHIKAZUKENNA!”

He screeamed and ran away.

Fabien: “JESUS, JIRO! WAIT FOR ME?!”

He snapped as he ran away to catch up to him.

~

At the Stone manor, Rutherford slammed Scarlett down, hovering over her with a big grin on his face. Scarlett sobbed and whimpered, feeling helpless, not knowing where her father was or when help would arrive.

He held her wrists with one of his large hands while the other fiddled with his pants.

Scarlett: “N-NO! NO!”

She cried.

The heavy oak doors of the Stone manor burst open with the force of a thunderclap. Celeste charged into the foyer, her leather jacket flared behind her like a cape, her eyes burning with a focused, icy resolve. She moved with a speed that blurred the edges of the ornate hallway.

Rutherford barely had time to turn his head, his expression shifting from a predatory sneer to wide-eyed shock. Before he could even grunt, Celeste’s fist connected with his jaw. The sound of the impact was like a baseball bat hitting a leather heavy bag—a dull, meaty crack that echoed through the high-ceilinged room.

The force of the blow sent Rutherford’s massive frame reeling backward. He slammed into the wrought iron railings of the grand staircase, the metal groaning and snapping under his weight. The iron bars, forged for elegance and strength, buckled and bent like soft pewter, warping into a jagged web of black metal as he slumped against them, dazed.

Celeste raised her fists, ready for more. She wore a white tiger-striped bustier beneath her leather jacket, paired with a leather skirt, spiked collar, black stockings, and black ankle-strap boots. Jordi and Deimos stood right behind her. Jordi wore a black button-down shirt, jeans, and black zip-up boots, while Deimos sported an Obituary tank top, ripped jeans, and cowboy boots.

Deimos flew to Scarlett and knelt by her. His hands hovered over her as a purple glow emitted from them to heal her wounds. Beneath the humming violet radiance, the jagged purple bruises on Scarlett’s wrists began to retreat, the discoloration melting back into the natural creaminess of her skin. The sharp, rhythmic throb of her headache dulled to a distant echo, replaced by a soothing warmth that felt like sunlight through a windowpane. Her ragged breaths smoothed out.

Deimos: “Did your powers get back?”

He asked Jordi.

Jordi put his hands out to form purple lightning, but all that came was purple sparks that fizzled out.

Jordi: “No, but I endured rigorous training to get the job I had before this one. Get her out of here; I will back Celeste.”

Deimos nodded, his expression softening as he reached down to lift the recovering Scarlett into his arms gently. She felt small and fragile against his chest, her head resting against his shoulder. He jumped out and flew out the window into the night.

Blood dripped from Rutherford’s nose right onto his white tank top. He rubbed under his nose, and his eyes grew large at the blood on his dark palms. He flicked his black eyes to Celeste and sneered, showing his missing teeth.

Rutherford: “No one ever fuckin’ made me bleed…”

Celeste: “Now she did.”

Bellowing with rage, Rutherford launched a wide, haymaker swing with both of his massive fists, aiming to crush Celeste and Jordi simultaneously. They both dove in opposite directions, the sheer force of his momentum carrying his arms harmlessly past them. Jordi scrambled to his feet, spotted an opening, and sprinted into the nearby study to gain a tactical advantage.

Jordi took cover behind his desk. His Byzantine eyes swung to a drawer. He tried to open it, but it was locked.

Jordi: “FUCK!”

He whispered hoarsely.

Jordi jammed his fingers into the narrow crevice of the drawer, his teeth bared in a snarl of concentration. The muscles in his forearm corded with effort, the skin pulling taut as he braced his boots against the heavy mahogany desk. With a sudden, violent heave, he wrenched the drawer outward. A sharp, splintering crack of wood echoed through the study as the lock mechanism gave way, revealing a Glock 17 inside.

He snatched the weapon. With a practiced motion, Jordi ejected the magazine, peering at the brass casings glinting in the dim light of the study. It was fully loaded.

Celeste was thrown through the wall and landed on the Reonan globe. She used her legs to spring herself back on her feet.

Celeste: “Jordi, man, that is not gonna work.”

She drawled.

Jordi: “I know how to use this, Celeste.”

He said with some irritation.

Celeste: “That ain’t what I said.”

Jordi didn’t wait for an explanation. He slammed the magazine home with a metallic click and racked the slide of the Glock 17, a sharp, mechanical sound that cut through the tension. He stepped out from behind the desk, his Byzantine eyes locked on Rutherford. With steady hands, he leveled the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The gunshot cracked through the room, a deafening report in the high-ceilinged study.

The bullets struck Rutherford square in the chest, but instead of piercing his flesh, they flattened like spent tin foil against his skin and dropped harmlessly to the floorboards. Rutherford didn't even flinch. He just looked down at the impact point, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.

Rutherford let out a guttural roar and charged toward the mahogany desk, pulling his massive fist back. With a surge of prehistoric power, he rammed his fist downward, aiming to crush both the wood and the man standing behind it. Jordi’s eyes narrowed; he slammed his palm onto the desk’s surface and used the momentum to vault his body into the air. He soared over the desk in a clean, athletic arc just as Rutherford’s fist collided with the heavy timber. The mahogany splintered and groaned under the impact, but Jordi landed lightly on the other side.

Rutherford lunged forward with a roar, his massive fist connecting with Celeste’s shoulder in a heavy, bone-jarring blow. The impact sent her flying backward across the room, her boots skidding uselessly against the hardwood before she slammed violently into a nearby mahogany bookcase. Leather-bound volumes tumbled around her as the wood groaned under the force of the collision, leaving her slumped against the wreckage. Celeste brushed the books off herself and rose to her feet.

Bellowing with a primordial rage, Rutherford charged after them, his massive frame acting as a wrecking ball that smashed through lath and plaster walls, leaving gaping holes and debris in his wake. Jordi didn’t hesitate; he utilized the environment, performing a series of precise parkour leaps to scramble up the structural column. With a final, explosive spring, he hauled himself up into the rafters, disappearing into the shadows above in a feat of stealth. From his vantage point, he watched in silence, holding his breath as Rutherford thundered blindly below, tearing through the architecture without a clue that his prey was hidden just overhead.

Rutherford, consumed by a blind, destructive frenzy, ignored the shadows above and lowered his head. With a guttural roar that shook the very foundations of the manor, he surged forward and smashed through the external lath and plaster wall. The structure disintegrated into a cloud of white dust and splintered wood as his massive frame burst out onto the moonlit terrace.

High above, Jordi dropped down from the rafters in a blur. He landed with a cat-like precision on the hardwood floor just behind the gaping hole Rutherford had left in his wake. Celeste sprinted from the study and past Jordi through the debris and out onto the stone terrace, where Rutherford was still shaking the plaster from his shoulders.

Celeste didn’t give him a chance to recover. She lunged forward and delivered a powerful, driving punch squarely into the center of Rutherford’s back. The force of the blow echoed like a cannon shot. Rutherford’s massive bulk was propelled forward, his boots skidding across the stone before he crashed violently into a heavy marble statue of a historical figure. The marble shattered on impact, raining white stone shards over his slumped, groaning form.

Rutherford let out a pained, wet growl as he pushed the stone fragments off his chest. He surged to his feet with surprising speed, his massive hands reaching out to catch Celeste mid-stride. He clamped his fingers around her waist, hoisting her into the air as Jordi vaulted through the hole in the wall to aid her.

With a roar of exertion, Rutherford spun and hurled Celeste toward the driveway, catching Jordi mid-air with his other arm and throwing him after her. The two collided in a blur of leather and denim, hurtling through the night air until they slammed into the side of Sully’s silver Rolls-Royce. The pristine passenger door buckled inward with a sickening crunch of premium steel, the impact leaving a massive, jagged dent that shattered the window and sent the Spirit of Ecstasy ornament rattling against the hood.

Jordi slid down the mangled metal of the Rolls-Royce, his body a map of white-hot agony. The air left his lungs in a ragged, liquid wheeze as he hit the gravel, every nerve ending screaming from the force of the collision. His vision swam with jagged bursts of static, the world tilting precariously as he tried to find his footing. A sharp, localized throb in his ribs told him something was cracked, and blood ran down his temple, stinging his eye. He tried to push himself up, but his right arm buckled under the weight, sending a fresh surge of nausea through his gut. Gritting his teeth until they felt like they might shatter, Jordi forced his trembling limbs to move, the simple act of drawing a breath feeling like inhaling shards of glass.

Celeste scrambled to her feet, her eyes widening as she took in Jordi’s mangled form against the wreckage. A low, guttural snarl escaped her throat, and she marched toward the buckled Rolls-Royce with a terrifying, singular focus. Ignoring the heat radiating from the cooling engine, she planted her boots deep into the gravel and jammed her fingers under the car’s undercarriage. With a massive grunt of effort that made the muscles in her back cord like steel cables, she hoisted the multi-ton vehicle clean over her head.

Rutherford’s sneer vanished, replaced by pure, wide-eyed terror as Celeste hurled the silver behemoth through the night air. The car struck him with the force of a falling building, pinning his massive bulk against a towering oak tree at the edge of the driveway. A split second later, the ruptured fuel tank ignited, and the Rolls-Royce detonated in a blinding orange fireball that consumed the vehicle and the man beneath it in a deafening roar.

From the smoldering inferno, a dark shape emerged. Rutherford stumbled out, his clothes reduced to charred rags and his skin singed by the blast. Before he could regain his footing, Celeste charged at him with a predatory roar. She closed the distance in a blur, driving her fists into his stomach with rhythmic, pile-driver force, each blow landing with a meaty thud that forced the air from his lungs and sent him staggering backward, visibly destabilized.

Celeste’s relentless onslaught shattered Rutherford’s prehistoric guard as he doubled over, completely destabilized. Drowning out the roar of the burning Rolls-Royce, she released a monstrous punch straight through his midsection, her arm piercing his torso until her bloody fist emerged from his mouth. The devastating impact rang out like a wrecking ball smashing into concrete, lifting the giant’s massive weight entirely off the gravel. With blood leaking from his eyes, nose, and mouth, Rutherford let out a final grunt as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his life faded. With a wet, squelching sound, Celeste extracted her arm from his torso. The giant toppled backward into the dirt, his limbs giving a few last involuntary twitches.

Celeste flicked her arm, spraying blood on the manicured lawn. Jordi limped toward her as blood drenched his shirt. Celeste and Jordi stared down into the lifeless, glassy eyes of Rutherford Jones.

A slow, deliberate clapping cut through the air, drawing their attention to Balderico, who stood watching them with an icy grin as his hands met.

Balderico: “Congratulations. You two did well.”

Jordi: “YOU!”

He rasped and winced.

Balderico: “Don’t overdo it, Jordi. You’ve done more than enough tonight.”

Jordi fell to his knees, wheezing heavily on the ground.

Balderico drew a small detonator from his suit pocket and clicked the button. In an instant, a violent explosion obliterated Rutherford’s head, showering Celeste and Jordi in a gory spray of blood, teeth, eyeballs, and brain matter. Celeste brushed a brain scrap off her shoulder.

Balderico: “Yes, I should have done this when he first started this nonsense.”

He drew a long breath. Jordi glared at him, baring his teeth.

Jordi: “YES, you should have! Innocent women died because of him! But I guess none of that matters because they weren’t your ‘Princess Gina’! But they were someone’s daughter.”

He snapped. Balderico smiled and pressed his index and middle finger on his forehead.

Balderico: “Spare me the self-righteous speech, Jordi. My issue was that I wasted precious dollars to pay off the cops not to investigate.”

He smiled. Jordi narrowed his eyes.

Jordi: “Right, not that he took their lives in the most horrible way imaginable. That would require empathy.”

He growled.

Balderico shrugged.

Balderico: “Does it matter in the end? Your actions, your words, or whatever aren’t bringing anyone back.”

Jordi spat a glob of blood onto the gravel, his eyes burning with a cold, piercing intensity that defied the agony radiating from his broken ribs.

Jordi: “You’re right, I can’t bring them back. But I’m going to take a lot of satisfaction in making sure you never get the chance to hurt anyone else again.”

Celeste bared her razor-sharp fangs and charged after him. Balderico’s icy grin widened as he reached into his breast pocket, producing a sleek, silver device no larger than a cigarette pack. With a clinical click of his thumb, the gadget unleashed a jagged, high-frequency screech that tore through the night air like a buzzsaw through sheet metal.

The sonic assault was instantaneous and total. Celeste’s and Jordi’s faces contorted as the piercing tone bypassed their willpower, striking directly at their equilibrium. They collapsed toward the gravel, hands clamped desperately over their ears as the invisible wave of torment shattered their focus and reduced the battlefield to a blur of shrill, agonizing static.

Balderico: “Do you think I don’t know how to deal with you worthless Etheressums?”

He chuckled.

Balderico: “Why on Reona do you think I implanted a bomb in Ruther’s brain anyway?”

He smiled.

Balderico’s smirk deepened into a cold, triumphant mask as he clicked the silver device shut, the lethal screech dying into an equally lethal silence. He adjusted the lapels of his suit, the smoke from the nearby inferno swirling around his loafers like a spectral fog. Without a backward glance at the two warriors gasping for air on the gravel, he turned and vanished into the velvet darkness of the driveway, his rhythmic footsteps marking the exit of a man who had already won the night.

The heavy air suddenly stirred with a low, rhythmic hum as Deimos descended through the billowing smoke, his silhouette framed by the twin moons. He landed with a soft thud beside Jordi’s mangled form, his eyes burning with a focused, protective intensity. As he knelt, his hands erupted in a brilliant, humming purple radiance that bathed the wreckage in a glow. The soothing energy surged into Jordi’s chest, the jagged, white-hot agony of his broken ribs melting into a cool, restorative balm that forced a long, shuddering breath of relief from his lungs while Celeste slowly began to push herself up from the dirt.

As the smoke drifted skyward, she lifted her gaze toward the twin moons and the vast expanse of stars scattered across the night sky.