I kept driving.
The old sedan tore through the wasteland roads like a dying animal in its final, desperate sprint, headlights cutting a narrow, trembling path through the endless darkness. The engine growled and rattled violently, protesting every bump and crack in the ruined asphalt. My new synthetic skin itched and burned with every small movement, still raw and tight from Doc Marrow's crude emergency grafts. The gunshot wound in my stomach throbbed in time with my heartbeat, fresh blood seeping through the makeshift bandages I had wrapped around myself in the car. Sophie lay motionless in the back seat, her systems still offline, her scorched synthetic body silent and unmoving, a dark silhouette against the passing wasteland.
I didn't stop for the control points.
When the first checkpoint appeared on the horizon — bright floodlights cutting through the night, armed guards in heavy exo-suits, metal barriers lowered across the road — I floored the accelerator. The car smashed through the barriers with a violent jolt that rattled my teeth. Two guards were hit directly, their bodies tumbling over the hood with sickening, wet thuds before rolling off into the darkness. I didn't slow down. I didn't look back. I just kept driving toward the center of Nightpunk City, toward the gleaming Harrington Tower that dominated the skyline like a middle finger raised against the rest of the rotting metropolis.
The tower was a monument to their power — 80 floors of gleaming glass, reinforced steel, and unapologetic arrogance. The Harrington family lived at the very top in a sprawling penthouse that overlooked the entire city they had helped bleed dry for decades. Victor Harrington, the patriarch and head of the empire. Elena, his elegant but ruthless wife. Skylar, their precious daughter who had destroyed my life with her lies and was now trying to finish the job from her hospital bed.
I slammed the car through the front entrance at full speed.
The massive glass facade exploded inward in a deafening shower of glittering shards that rained down like deadly diamonds. The sedan plowed through the luxurious lobby like a battering ram, crushing several security guards and late-night staff under its wheels. Alarms blared instantly. People screamed. Bodies flew through the air. Blood sprayed across the polished marble floor in wide arcs. I didn't care. I left Sophie in the back seat, still offline, and climbed out of the wrecked car, pistol in hand, blood dripping from my wounds onto the expensive floor.
I ran for the stairs.
No elevators. Too easy to trap or disable. I took the stairs, climbing 80 fucking floors on foot. My legs burned with every step. My lungs screamed for air. The gunshot wound in my stomach leaked fresh blood with every heartbeat, soaking my clothes and leaving a red trail behind me on the concrete steps. I was exhausted, barely alive, my vision blurring at the edges from pain and blood loss. But the rage kept me moving. Pure, burning rage. I wanted to kill every last one of them. Victor Harrington. Elena. Skylar. The whole fucking family that had ruined my life and then tried to burn me alive in a landfill like garbage.
By the time I reached the penthouse floor, I was drenched in sweat and blood, my breathing ragged and shallow, my legs shaking uncontrollably. I kicked open the door with the last of my strength.
They were waiting for me.
A dozen elite guards in full tactical gear stood in the luxurious hallway, rifles raised, red laser sights dancing across my chest and head. Victor Harrington stood behind them, an older man in an expensive tailored suit, looking at me with cold, aristocratic contempt. Elena was beside him, elegant and furious, her face a perfect mask of controlled rage. Skylar sat in a wheelchair nearby, legs in casts, her face pale but filled with pure, venomous hatred.
Victor smirked, voice dripping with disdain. "You really thought you could just walk in here? Foolish. Pathetic. After everything you did to my daughter, you still come crawling back like a wounded dog begging for death."
I raised my hands slowly, blood dripping from my fingers onto the expensive carpet.
Then it happened.
A massive explosion rocked the ground floor far below us. I had armed Sophie with a few grenades and a timer before leaving the car. She must have woken up just in time.
The guards flinched, distracted for a split second.
I moved.
I grabbed the nearest guard's rifle, twisted it out of his hands with the last of my strength, and opened fire. I moved faster than they expected, adrenaline and pure hatred giving me strength I shouldn't have had. I shot them all — quick, precise bursts, bodies dropping one after another like puppets with cut strings. Victor tried to run. I put a bullet in his back at point blank range. He collapsed with a surprised gasp. Elena screamed. I hit her in the chest. She fell beside her husband, blood spreading across her designer dress.
Skylar stared at me from her wheelchair, eyes wide with terror.
I dragged her mother by the hair into the room where Skylar was resting. Elena was still alive, gasping, 40 years old but still beautiful in that cold, aristocratic way — smooth skin, elegant features, a body that had been maintained with the best money could buy.
"Strip," I ordered her, pressing the gun to her head.
She begged. She cried. She offered money, connections, anything. But I pressed the gun harder until she obeyed, peeling off her expensive clothes with shaking hands. Her body was still impressive for her age — full breasts, toned stomach, smooth thighs. I fucked her right there in front of Skylar — rough, brutal, hateful. I bent her over the expensive coffee table, slamming into her from behind while Skylar watched with tears streaming down her face. I made sure Skylar saw everything. Every thrust. Every slap. Every humiliating sound Elena made as I railed her without mercy. I pulled her hair, choked her, called her every filthy name I could think of while her daughter was forced to watch.
When I was done, I put a bullet in Elena's head.
Now only Skylar remained.
I dragged her out to the balcony, the wind whipping around us 80 floors above the city. She begged, voice hoarse and broken, promising anything if I spared her.
I threw her over the edge.
She screamed as she fell, the sound cutting off far below.
I searched the entire penthouse and found Lecy tied up in a closet — gagged, terrified, but alive. For a split second I almost felt sorry. Then I remembered her betrayal. I shot her too.
Satisfied, I turned on the gas from the kitchen stove, lit a cigarette, and sat down in Victor's expensive chair.
The explosion lit up the night sky as the entire top of Harrington Tower went up in flames.
Including me.