"Adam!?"
Grace's scream was louder than the roaring exhaust of the car. But even her voice was drowned out by the howling, manic laughter of the woman behind the wheel.
"Vroom, vroom, motherfucker!"
Tongue out, eyes wild, the woman shook her head violently as she slammed the gas pedal harder, pressing Adam even deeper against the wall.
Adam couldn't even feel his legs anymore. He wasn't sure if the cracking sounds filling the air were coming from the wall behind him—or from his own bones. Most likely, the latter.
He drove his fist against the hood of the car, but it barely made a dent. If only he had his metal pipe, he could've shattered the window, maybe even caved the woman's skull in. But of course, his weapon was in his other hand—the one currently crushed along with the rest of his lower body.
The woman only pressed harder on the gas, her tongue lolling further out like some deranged animal.
Adam clenched his teeth, looking down at himself. And then—an absolutely ridiculous idea came to mind.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he stopped struggling. Instead, he pushed.
Not against the car—against the wall.
A guttural, agonized scream tore through his throat as he pushed his upper body forward, tearing himself free inch by inch. Flesh ripped. His spine stretched and snapped. He kept going.
And the woman? She loved it.
Her giggling turned to squeals of excitement, her head thrashing as she leaned even further on the gas.
But before Adam could register what was happening, he saw Grace.
With a vicious snarl, she ripped open the driver's door and drove her blade into the woman's neck—again and again. Blood sprayed across the dashboard. The woman's gurgling laughter finally died as her arms went limp.
Before the body could slump forward, Grace yanked off the seatbelt and dragged her out.
Samantha, who had been watching everything unfold, suddenly lunged, knife in hand.
And she started stabbing.
Again.
Again.
Again.
"Move back, sweetie!" Grace pulled her daughter away, and Samantha quickly retreated toward the wall—her wide eyes now fixed on Adam.
Without hesitation, Grace jumped into the driver's seat and threw the car into reverse. The instant Adam was freed, Samantha rushed to his side, her small hands frantically grabbing at his arm.
"Mister!"
Adam barely heard her. His body was already knitting itself back together, bones fusing, skin weaving shut. But his mind? It was still trying to process how utterly skewed everything had become.
"Adam!"
Grace was at his side in an instant, running trembling hands over his arms, his chest.
"Are you okay!? No, stupid question—of course you're not okay, you just got fucking flattened. But you're—ugh, you're already healing? Why? Why is everything so goddamn fucked up!? Where did that car even come from!? And that woman—she was on our team! Was she on fucking drugs!?"
"What… what are drugs, Mommy?"
"Shh!"
Grace quickly covered Samantha's ears, exhaling sharply before turning back to Adam.
But she didn't need to check him anymore.
Because Adam, despite everything, was already standing up.
"Your… healing is getting faster," Grace muttered, her brows furrowing. "Ever since you were… eaten by that thing."
Adam only sighed, rolling his shoulders before hopping on his feet to test them. Samantha, for no reason at all, mimicked him, bunny-hopping in place.
Their brief moment of quiet, however, was shattered once more.
"Hey!"
Grace's voice cut through the chaos as she spotted someone leaping onto the car—a fellow Red creep. The man didn't even acknowledge them before speeding off, mowing down Red and Blue alike.
"This…" Grace's breath grew heavier as the battlefield descended even further into madness.
But the car didn't get far.
It wasn't because the tires were clogged with limbs.
No, it was because something—or rather, someone—landed on the hood while it was still moving, crushing the engine instantly. The entire back of the car bounced from the impact, as if it had just hit an invisible wall.
A name, glowing bright blue, hovered above the figure now kneeling atop the wreckage:
[Dr. Syrio, the Duke of Scalpels]
His gloved fist had caved the metal beneath him. His long white coat fluttered behind him, revealing a dark vest and crisp formal attire beneath. But the most striking feature?
The dozens of scalpels hanging from his vest.
With a flick of his wrist, the scalpels detached themselves and began floating in the air, orbiting around him like restless daggers waiting to be unleashed.
Then, with an elegant, almost effortless wave of his hand—
They struck.
The scalpels shot through the car's windshield, piercing through flesh and bone with surgical precision. Like a swarm of piranhas, they tore into the driver, carving away skin, tendons, muscle.
In mere moments, the driver's upper body collapsed like a ruined sandcastle. Flesh and bones reduced to pulp.
Dr. Syrio tilted his head slightly, flicking his fingers.
"May your health be better in the next life."
The scalpels spun faster, whirring like a fan blade—flinging away the blood and gore stuck to them. In seconds, they were pristine again, gleaming under the dim, smoke-filled light. One by one, they drifted back toward his vest.
"Hmm?"
Before the scalpels could all latch onto him, however, a sudden gust of wind swept through the battlefield, rustling his hair and coat.
Dr. Syrio's eyes narrowed. Slowly, he looked up.
A bright shadow loomed overhead.
A giant translucent palm, larger than the car itself, was descending upon him at terrifying speed.
And then boom!
A violent shockwave tore through the air, hurling nearby creeps several meters away. The car was flattened without resistance, crushed into the crater that had formed beneath the massive handprint.
Dr. Syrio, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, he was already meters away, scalpels spinning defensively around him. His sharp gaze locked onto a new figure emerging from the dust and debris.
From the scattered creeps still struggling to sit up, a bald man strode forward.
Barefoot, shirtless, his baggy pants rippled in the wind. His muscular chest bore a massive mandala tattoo, intricate and ancient. He raised a hand to his face, his forehead and nose resting lightly against his index finger.
Above his head, his name glowed a deep, unyielding red.
[Paik, the Buddha's Wind]
"Amitabha."