The gangster's pistol sights locked squarely on the narrow gap between the sofas—right where Howard's head peeked through. His finger tightened on the trigger, a cruel grin curling across his face.
He was sure of the shot; at this distance, even the heavy furniture couldn't save his target.
But just as he was about to fire, a single bullet whistled from the shadows below—clean, silent, and perfectly placed.
It entered through the gangster's eye socket and burst out the back of his skull, spraying blood and brain matter across the staircase wall.
The remaining mobsters were already dwindling in number; now, after this wave of precision fire, their so-called advantage evaporated completely. Their gunfire thinned, turning erratic and desperate.
Seeing that, Chen Mo's men struck back with renewed vigor.
They rose from behind their cover, moving as one—calm, focused, deadly—pouring out a barrage so fierce that the surviving mafiosi couldn't even lift their heads.
The battle became a slaughter.
Within moments, the staircase was a graveyard—dozens of corpses piled upon one another, scarlet blood seeping down the marble steps like a slow, glistening waterfall, pooling across the grand hall's polished floor like a dark red carpet.
When the last echo of gunfire faded, silence fell.
Exhaustion hit all at once. One by one, they slid down against the walls and pillars, panting hard. The battle had been brutal—every nerve taut, every muscle screaming under the weight of the heavy armor.
Chen Mo surveyed them with a cool gaze. Their performance had been solid… but the momentary relaxation after victory made his tone turn sharp.
"Get up," he barked. "The fight isn't over. What if another wave comes now—how many of you die before you can even stand?"
The rebuke snapped them alert. They scrambled to their feet, shame flashing across their faces. Chen Mo sighed inwardly. Still green—strong, but untested. Tonight will be their real baptism.
He gestured toward the upper floor. "There won't be many left upstairs. So—rest here, or come with me?"
"We're still good!" Huang Quan and the others shouted in unison.
Despite the fatigue, their eyes gleamed brighter than before—hardened, fierce, alive. Albert wiped the sweat from his brow, reloading both pistols with calm determination.
Chen Mo nodded approvingly, then turned toward Howard—who still didn't realize he'd nearly lost his head seconds ago. His face was flushed, soaked in sweat, but lit with manic excitement.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Howard grinned. "That was amazing! I'm just getting started! Come on—let's finish this!"
He brandished his pistol dramatically. "One hundred more fights—I can handle it!"
Chen Mo arched a brow. The man had gone from cowardly scientist to raving combat junkie in one night. There was no hesitation in his movements, no remorse in his eyes.
So that's your true nature, Chen Mo thought grimly. A born war-hound in a scientist's shell.
Huang Quan, Wang Kun, and the others had all killed before; their calmness was forged through hardship. Albert was simply unshakable—decades of experience made him immune to fear.
But Howard? A laboratory genius who'd barely left his workshop—and yet, faced with blood and death, he looked invigorated.
Satisfied that their morale was back, Chen Mo motioned upward. "Let's finish this."
They stepped carefully up the staircase, boots slipping slightly on the blood-slick marble. The once-grand steps gleamed wet and red beneath their feet.
The second floor was eerily quiet—no sound, no movement. Chen Mo's senses spread outward, reading the silence, then gestured forward. They climbed again.
On the third floor, behind the heavy oak doors of a luxurious office, the head of the Lucian family sat waiting.
Floyd Lucian—lord of Brooklyn's underground, silver-haired and impeccably dressed—sat rigid behind a vast mahogany desk, an unlit Cuban cigar between his fingers.
The gunfire below had raged far too long. It should have been over by now. Unease crept into his chest.
Who could possibly have stormed his headquarters? Who had the power to fight through dozens of his elite gunmen?
The Fraley family? Impossible. The two major families in Brooklyn were equals; a frontal assault would doom them both.
Government agents? Also unlikely. He paid them well—bribes upon bribes to keep the authorities blind. If the feds truly came for him, his men wouldn't have lasted a minute.
Then the realization struck like lightning.
A shadow. A name. Him.
Sweat beaded along Floyd's forehead.
Chen Mo. He's back.
The pattern was unmistakable—the same bold, midnight strike, just as when that madman wiped out Mad Dog Tony's crew. Only this time, he hadn't come alone.
"How did he know?" Floyd muttered, gripping the cigar until it cracked.
Their manipulations had been so careful—using smaller gangs as pawns, hiding behind layers of intermediaries. Afterward, they'd planned to silence everyone, erase all traces. Even if Chen Mo returned, he'd find no proof, no link back to them.
It should have been perfect.
But Chen Mo wasn't alone anymore. Behind him stood the intelligence network of Hydra—an all-seeing machine that had tracked their every move.
And in that moment of dawning horror, Floyd Lucian finally understood:
Against sheer personal might, he might have stood a chance.
Against a man with power and an empire behind him, he was already dead.