The unbearable pain seemed to awaken Vladimir's primal ferocity.
He forced his eyes open despite the agony. His arm stretched out desperately, grasping for the submachine gun that had fallen just beyond his reach.
But Vladimir, caught up in desperation, ignored the blind spot in his vision.
A figure leaped from atop a wooden crate.
While still airborne, a massive black knife descended with devastating force.
CRACK.
The sound was sharp and distinct. Vladimir's howl of anguish followed immediately after.
His hand and half his forearm separated completely from his body, tumbling across the concrete floor.
The narrow blade twisted in its wielder's grip and plunged downward again.
It pierced Vladimir's chest, pinning him to the wooden crate behind him like a butterfly in a collection.
Only then did Nolan, wearing his red bandana and war paint, finally allow himself to relax.
His entire body went limp. He nearly collapsed to the ground.
A full night of relentless activity had pushed Nolan's stamina to its absolute limit. Especially when killing the other two guards earlier, he'd overextended his left arm and strained the muscles badly. One of them had nearly broken free from his chokehold, almost creating a crisis he couldn't control.
Nolan had intentionally used the bloody scene of Ivan's severed head to stimulate Vladimir psychologically. To increase pressure. To force fatal mistakes.
Otherwise, he would never have been so cruel as to desecrate a corpse that way.
He'd never been a cruel person by nature.
Nolan glanced at Vladimir, now dying and vomiting blood, his eyes complicated. He shook his head slightly.
Then he tentatively moved his injured left arm. The damage wasn't serious. Nothing he couldn't work through.
Immediately, he began rummaging through the surrounding wooden crates, searching systematically.
From the moment he'd snuck into the warehouse, the simulator, which had been silent since his last use, had suddenly come to life.
[Resources available nearby. Please collect as soon as possible.]
Twenty minutes later, Nolan completed his initial exploration.
Most of the wooden boxes contained luxury goods, smuggled to avoid import taxes. But five crates held brand-new firearms, still reeking of pungent gun oil.
Curious, Nolan reached out and picked up a submachine gun.
The simulator interface immediately appeared before his eyes.
[Harmful substance detected: Firearm (can reduce cooldown time by one hour)]
[Do you want to absorb harmful substance?]
Nolan's eyes widened slightly.
The resources required by the simulator were guns?
More than ten hours had passed since Nolan's last simulation. The cooldown had already ended. He could start a new simulation at any time.
Nolan chose to absorb the weapon, planning to observe what changes occurred.
[Current consumable cooldown time: one hour.]
One gun for one hour?
Nolan's eyes lit up. He didn't hesitate further.
He quickly absorbed every firearm in the warehouse, including the weapons carried by the three dead men.
[Current consumable cooldown time: six days and five hours (149 hours).]
Staring at the final number displayed on the simulator, Nolan couldn't suppress a smile.
According to the ratio of one hour of cooldown reduction to one day of survival, 149 hours meant he could simulate 149 days.
Nearly half a year of experience.
Enough for Nolan's combat abilities and survival skills to increase dramatically.
But most importantly, if there was one thing the American continent had in abundance, it was guns.
"Wait. I wonder if drugs count as harmful substances?"
Nolan suddenly remembered what Vladimir had said. Ten kilograms of product hidden somewhere in the warehouse, waiting to be found.
He didn't know if the simulator would accept that kind of substance, but it was worth checking.
Energized by his discovery, Nolan seemed to forget the dull ache in his left arm. He searched until he found the black wooden crate in the corner that Vladimir had mentioned.
But when Nolan pried it open, he found it empty.
Nothing inside at all.
"Why was I naive enough to believe a gang lieutenant?" Nolan muttered, laughing bitterly at himself.
However, just as he was about to turn away, he heard something.
A faint noise. Muffled. Coming from beneath the crate.
Nolan's eyes narrowed. He suddenly raised his leg and kicked the black wooden box aside.
The crate tumbled away, completely exposing a hidden basement door set into the floor.
Nolan's expression turned serious. He listened intently.
A series of light knocking sounds drifted up from below.
Kidnapped hostages? Smuggled animals?
Nolan couldn't make a judgment immediately. He decided to open it and see for himself.
He took a deep breath and gripped the door handle with his right hand.
Metal hinges creaked as the secret door swung open.
A suffocating stench of human waste rolled up from the darkness, hitting him like a physical blow.
But when the warehouse light spilled into the basement below, Nolan's eyes went wide.
He stared at the scene without moving, struck completely silent.
Children.
A group of children of different skin colors and ethnicities.
A group of expressionless children, none older than seven or eight years old.
Most wore ragged, filthy clothes. Their faces bore obvious tracks where tears had cut through layers of grime. They huddled together in the darkness, some clutching makeshift weapons, pieces of stone or broken wood.
The sudden light and sound seemed to shatter the despair that had been spreading among them like a disease.
Pairs of terrified, confused, or heartbreakingly sad young eyes turned upward.
All of them looking at Nolan alone.
For a moment, Nolan stood frozen. The rage that had been simmering in his chest since the restaurant robbery erupted into an inferno. His hands clenched so hard his knuckles cracked.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Nolan's face, still painted with black and green camouflage, broke into an extremely bright smile.
"You're all saved now!" His voice was warm, gentle. "Don't be afraid. Uncle I am here to rescue you!"
A moment of silence followed.
Then a child holding half a stone in trembling hands asked cautiously, "Are we really saved?"
Nolan looked toward the voice and found a beautiful little girl with sparkling eyes that still held a flicker of hope despite everything.
He took a deep breath, forcing down the rage threatening to consume him. He smiled and nodded.
"Yes. You're free now. The bad people outside is gone."
He paused, then added more gently, "If you're not too scared, you can come out and see for yourselves. The bad people who hurt you won't ever bother anyone again."
Perhaps Nolan's words offered comfort. Or perhaps the traumatized children finally allowed themselves to believe in rescue.
Whatever the reason, a dozen children suddenly came to life, like wound-up toys finally released.
They all surged upward at once, scrambling with hands and feet.
Nolan, standing at the basement entrance, suddenly found himself surrounded by a swarm of small bodies several feet high. While they shouted excitedly, their dirty little hands grabbed at his clothes and pants, shaking him back and forth with desperate relief.
Nolan, trying to maintain his composure, couldn't help but feel overwhelmed.
This wouldn't work.
He still needed to clean up the murder scene, minimize the traces he'd left behind. But what about the children?
He couldn't just leave them here. And he couldn't take them with him during the cleanup.
What was he supposed to do?