The Predator

Blood. It was everywhere.

On my hands, on my shirt, smeared across my fucking face. I reeked of it. The coppery stench clung to me like a second skin, reminding me of every bastard I’d killed tonight and every one I hadn’t. Yet for the first time in my life, it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing did.

The mansion was a fucking warzone. Bodies everywhere, blood splattered across my goddamn walls, and here I was, in a hospital hallway that reeked of antiseptic, watching my family unravel.

Alexei Volkov sat outside the ICU, his head buried in his hands, muttering prayers to a God I stopped believing in...