Act II – Chapter 4: "I Won't Let You Go Again"
In her room, now lit by unhooked bulbs that weren't connected to anything, Gwen hugged a plushie with tiny dreadlocks she had sewn herself.
She rocked back and forth on the edge of the bed, humming under her breath:
"Four years… four years I've been getting ready to avenge you. You'll see, Leo… I'll kill them all…"
She spun the plushie in her hands as if she were dancing with it.
"You're all going to die… you're all going to die…" she repeated in a soft, almost sing‑song voice.
The bulbs on the ceiling crackled in time with her chant, lighting up and going dark in sequence.
A strange smile curved her lips.
"If you knew, Leo… how strong I am now…"
She got to her feet and twirled, squeezing the plushie tight against her chest. At that exact moment, the door burst open.
"The hell are you doing? Boss wants you. Move it," a mobster snapped as he stepped in.
Gwen froze.
She turned around slowly, still clutching the Leo plush to her chest, eyes wide open. All the bulbs flickered at once.
A shiver ran down the guard's spine.
"Uh… please," he added quickly, a little softer.
"Of course. You just had to ask nicely," Gwen replied, amused.
She walked past him almost with a skip in her step, as if she were heading out for a stroll.
The mobster stayed frozen in the doorway for a second, watching her disappear down the corridor.
Shit… I knew I hadn't seen her in a while, but… Was she always this creepy? he thought, swallowing hard.
Gwen entered Don Javier's office without really knocking, pushing the door open with her fingertips.
He was already waiting for her, seated behind his desk, the city of Las Vegas spread out behind him through the floor‑to‑ceiling window.
"Sleep well, Gwen?" he asked with a broad smile.
"Yes, I had another wonderful dream. Want me to tell you about it?" she answered, eyes shining.
"Let me guess, another dream where I die in horrific pain," Javier sighed.
Gwen giggled, a crystalline little laugh that didn't match her usual words at all.
"You know me so well."
They smiled at each other, both wearing fake expressions.
Behind his, Javier was already thinking: Holy shit… I did not plan for that big a change. She's downright terrifying… She's perfect.
Gwen's gaze shifted in an instant.
Her smile vanished, her eyes turning cold and sharp like a blade.
"What's the mission?" she asked simply.
Don Javier barely frowned before slipping back into his casual tone.
"A rival group is trying to intercept my merchandise. I'd like you to… let's say, handle the problem."
He spun a pen between his fingers.
"I just sent you the details by email. Also, you'll have a partner on this one. He's already on his way to the site."
He lifted his head to see her reaction.
Gwen was already gone.
The door was still swinging slightly.
A guard by the entrance shrugged.
"She left as soon as you said 'email', sir."
"How rude…" Javier sighed, slumping back in his chair. "She missed the best part."
He picked up a file lying on the corner of his desk.
On the first page, a photo of Leo at twenty—dark suit, hard gaze.
Don Javier's mouth curled in a faint smirk.
"Hm… Let's see how you handle this, my little Gwen…" he murmured.
Gwen had slipped into the web, dematerializing into the data streams like a ghost of light.
She floated through that ocean of numbers and images, still clutching Leo's plushie, digitized and carried along with her like a talisman.
Don Javier's instructions scrolled before her eyes: names, encrypted accounts, stolen delivery plans.
The rival group wasn't careful. In the middle of hidden forums and shady servers, they left traces everywhere—logs, messages, transfers. Gwen followed every trail like an electrical wire until she hit the exact source.
An address.
A warehouse on the outskirts, far from the Strip, wedged between train tracks and an industrial zone.
She smiled.
"Found you."
In a fraction of a second, she condensed, slipped out of the data flow… and materialized on site.
Inside the warehouse, about twenty guys were moving around crates and weapons under harsh, flickering neon lights. Farther in, more voices, laughter, insults: in total, over two hundred members of the rival clan filled the place, between tables, screens, and stacked pallets.
On a folding table, a man hunched over a laptop was showing a plan to his colleagues.
"We hit the convoy here," he said, tapping the map. "We cut through there, jam the comms, and before the old man even has time to—"
He broke off.
Right over his shoulder, someone else was suddenly there.
A young woman, about 1.75 meters tall, slim figure, dark hoodie, hair dyed in different shades of blue. She was peering at the screen over him without a word.
He turned his head.
Gwen's eyes met his—calm, almost curious. Then she smiled.
He froze for a second, unable to process how she had gotten there.
Then he lurched back, knocking his chair over.
"Who the hell are you?!"
The others in the room jumped.
A few pulled guns on instinct.
One second earlier, she hadn't been there.
Now she was standing in the middle of them, a plushie with dreads tucked under one arm, a throwing knife in the other hand.
"I'm the end of your day," Gwen replied in an almost cheerful tone.
Weapons came out from everywhere.
Several men raised pistols and rifles, sights trained on her.
They opened fire.
For them, everything happened fast.
For Gwen, everything slowed down.
Electricity surged through her nervous system. Neuronal impulses crackled louder, faster; her perception stretched. The swing of their arms, fingers tightening on triggers, muscles contracting… she saw it all in slow motion.
But her body didn't move any faster.
Her movements were still human.
She threw her knife.
The blade cut through the air at a normal speed, heading for the first line of enemies.
Gwen didn't even wait for it to reach them.
When the knife was halfway there, she turned into lightning—her entire body disintegrating into a streak of light drawn to the metal.
In a microsecond, she vanished from where she'd been standing.
The knife finally hit its target.
But it wasn't just a knife anymore.
Gwen rematerialized at the point of impact, hand already wrapped around the hilt.
Solid again, she yanked sideways across the first man's throat. Blood sprayed over the table. Before he even hit the ground, she had already let go of the blade.
She flung the knife toward a second cluster of men farther away.
The trajectory was simple, almost slow, but precise.
Again, she became lightning, drawn like a living lightning rod to the metal of her own weapon.
Reappearance. Blade. Cut. Another strangled scream died in someone's throat.
She repeated the process over and over.
The men weren't bad shots.
Some of them even had good reflexes—pulling back, taking cover, trying angles. But all they ever hit was where she had been a heartbeat earlier.
"Where the fuck is she coming from?!" one of them shouted.
"Move! Move! Is she teleporting or what?!"
Gunshots rang out, tearing through screens, crates, and walls.
Wherever Gwen's knife flew, death followed. Sometimes she appeared just behind a man, sometimes to his right, sometimes in the middle of a group. Every time, another throat opened, another pair of eyes went wide, another body hit the floor.
She wasn't invisible.
She wasn't untouchable—every rematerialization exposed her, forced her to be in the right place at the right instant, for a fraction of a second. But their panic played in her favor.
Some started to fall back, trying to stay out of range of that knife they kept seeing in the air.
"Don't bunch up! Spread out!" one of the leaders yelled.
What might have worked, once, against the Gwen from four years ago… wasn't nearly enough anymore.
Gwen stopped.
She caught her breath, heart pounding fast, but her gaze still clear. Around her, dozens of bodies already lay scattered.
"Alright… next step," she murmured.
She raised her hand.
The air seemed to hum.
The industrial lamps hanging from the ceiling crackled louder. Phones in pockets, radios at belts, tactical lights on rifles—anything with a circuit started to heat up.
"What's that noise?" one man asked, staring at his gun.
A spark leapt between Gwen's fingers.
She hurled a bolt of lightning that split instantly into a spray of branching arcs, drawn to every piece of metal.
The weapons screamed louder than the men holding them.
Their bodies jerked, muscles seizing, fingers locked on dead triggers. Some collapsed to their knees, others dropped flat, nerves fried by the surge.
In a single impulse, Gwen had shut down a whole group who thought they were safe at range.
Radios popped. Phones began to smoke.
The air reeked of ozone and burnt metal.
Deeper in the warehouse, other members of the rival clan—drawn by the chaos—rushed in with heavy weapons, shouting and cursing. They burst into a scene of carnage: bodies strewn across the floor, walls splattered, and a single girl standing in the middle of it all, plushie tucked under one arm, knife in the other.
Gwen tilted her head, that strange smile on her lips.
"I did warn you, you know…" she said softly, as if whispering to Leo through the plush. "You're all going to die."
And she threw her knife again.
Leo was tearing down the highway, helmet on, the roar of his bike almost drowning out Don Javier's voice in his earpiece.
"I just sent you your partner's location," Javier said casually.
A soft beep confirmed receipt. Leo flicked a quick glance at the GPS mounted on his handlebars.
"…You've got to be kidding me. She's already there," he muttered.
He twisted the throttle.
The city lights stretched into streaks, then faded, giving way to the industrial zone: gray warehouses, fences, tired streetlamps. The closer he got, the more something bothered him.
It was too quiet.
No gunshots.
No screams.
Just the sound of his engine.
He cut the bike a few meters from the warehouse entrance. The rumble died, leaving behind an almost unreal calm. Night birds were already perching on the power lines, as if nothing had happened.
Leo took off his helmet.
Ahead of him, in the middle of the lane leading to the complex, a figure was walking at an unhurried pace.
Gwen.
She walked like she was coming back from a stroll, not from a slaughter. Her clothes were stained here and there with blood, her hair a bit tousled, and in one hand she still held the dreadlocked plushie… at least until she saw him.
She lifted her head.
Their eyes met.
Time froze.
The plush slipped from her fingers and hit the ground with a soft thud.
"…Leo," she breathed.
Behind her, the complex blew apart.
A massive explosion ripped through the air. Flames tore the walls open as entire sections of the warehouse collapsed, sending plumes of fire and smoke into the sky. The heatwave rolled over Leo, kicking up dust and blowing a few of Gwen's strands forward.
In the reflection of the flames, Gwen's green eyes burned.
In that precise instant, seeing again the man she had sworn to avenge all these years, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she would never let him leave her again.
She had become a hardened killer.
He, a man of principle, led by a code that refused to take lives.
This was how their story began.
To be continued.