Chapter 119 - 117 Death Walked Among the Chains

Chapter 119: Chapter 117 Death Walked Among the Chains

The music devoured the sound of the door closing.

A deep beat descended from the speakers, passed through the floor, and climbed through the bones before dissolving among violet, red, and amber lights. The outer lobby had been little more than an antechamber. Beyond an arch of dark metal, Club Vesper opened like an illuminated cavity within the night, vast, warm, and saturated with bodies.

Sebastián entered first.

He was still wearing his dark pajamas. A few drops of blood had reached one of his sleeves and the back of his hand, but beneath the shifting lights, they looked like black stains that appeared and disappeared with every step. The administrator walked behind him, keeping her face calm despite knowing what they had left in front of the entrance.

No one turned toward the doors.

The music was too loud. The alcohol, too plentiful. The attention of those present was buried in other things.

The air struck Sebastián before any gaze did.

It smelled of burned marijuana: thick, vegetal, acrid smoke, with an earthy sweetness that clung to the back of the throat. Beneath it were tobacco, more bitter substances consumed through small pipes, and a chemical trace reminiscent of heated plastic. The alcohol added another layer: fermentation, overly ripe fruit, spilled liquor, and that sticky acidity left on tables when the ice melted inside abandoned glasses.

The perfumes tried to cover it.

They failed.

Sweet, expensive fragrances mixed with sweat, smoke, hot skin, and cleaning products used too many times over the same filth. The result was not a single smell, but a damp mass that clung to clothing and seemed to grow denser the more one breathed.

Several circular platforms were arranged in the center of the hall.

Metal poles rose from them to structures suspended from the ceiling. Naked adult women danced on each platform, lines of fluorescent paint running along their arms, thighs, bellies, and faces. Beneath the ultraviolet lights, those strokes seemed to move separately from their bodies. Some spun around the poles. Others slowly lowered themselves until they were close to the men gathered around them.

The heat had plastered their hair against their backs and necks.

Drops of sweat ran down their skin, crossed the bright paint, and fell onto the circular bases, where they mixed with spilled liquor and damp footprints. The lights turned each drop into a brief flash before losing it among the shadows.

The customers watched from low sofas, circular tables, and open private booths.

There were plump men dressed in suits too expensive for their neglected bodies. Others were tall, thin, and rigid, with watches capable of paying for years of someone else’s life. Some wore organizational rings, corporate insignias, or accessories designed to imply power without naming it. Several women also drank among them, watching the platforms with the same acquired indifference of someone who had paid for everything to be available.

No one seemed surprised by anything.

One man inhaled a line of white powder from a small mirror while another placed black chips beside a card with numbers. Nearby, two customers argued over a bet about how long a woman could remain suspended from the pole without touching the platform. At another table, a transparent bag passed from hand to hand along with bundles of money and small colored capsules.

The club did not hide the excess.

It only hid what it truly sold.

Sebastián walked without looking at the dancers more than necessary to register the space they occupied. There was no desire in his eyes. Nor moral rejection. His pupils moved across the hall in another way: cameras embedded in the columns, side exits, men with communicators, weapons beneath jackets, stairways, and corridors where the music lost strength.

The administrator knew that look.

He was not observing a club. He was dismantling its structure.

To the left stretched a black stone bar illuminated from below. Bottles of different shapes covered an entire wall, arranged by color and origin. The workers served drinks without ceasing to watch the movements around them. Some glasses held fruit, cold smoke, or small metallic sheets floating over the liquor. Others contained dark mixtures that smelled of fermented herbs and sweet chemicals.

Behind the bar, a man handed over a tiny envelope along with a drink.

The customer did not open it. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket and slid a golden chip across the surface.

Farther ahead, several tables were dedicated exclusively to gambling. There were no visible roulette wheels or machines. People wagered on private screens, encrypted contracts, illegal races, fights, and merchandise whose names appeared abbreviated. On one of them, a list of blood types remained visible for a second before the user closed the screen upon noticing movement nearby.

Sebastián continued.

Above the main hall rose a second level surrounded by golden metal railings and darkened glass. From below, larger private booths, separated tables, and guarded corridors could be seen. Some doors were covered by heavy curtains; others had tinted panels that made it impossible to see inside.

The sounds did escape.

Muffled moans. Broken laughter. The repeated thud of a piece of furniture against a wall. A male voice giving instructions that the music dissolved before the words arrived complete.

On one of the balconies, a man emerged from a room adjusting his belt while an adult woman remained behind him, leaning against the frame, her gaze vacant. A worker immediately approached, offered him a drink, and closed the door as though it were part of a carefully practiced protocol.

Sebastián raised his gaze for only an instant. Then he kept walking.

At the opposite end of the hall, the DJ occupied an elevated platform between luminous panels. He wore large headphones, a jacket covered in reflections, and had both hands on a wide console. Every change in the music altered the lights on the platforms and the rhythm of the dancers. On either side of him, two screens projected abstract figures, chains closing around faceless silhouettes, and coins melting over open hands.

The image did not seem accidental.

The House of Chains was present even when it did not speak its name.

The administrator remained one step behind Sebastián.

She had entered underworld places before, but she did not usually do so while accompanying someone who had just destroyed the guards at the entrance. Every security member who passed nearby could receive an alert at any moment. Every camera might already be showing the broken doors and the bodies outside.

Yet nothing was happening.

Perhaps no one truly watched the entrance with any attention. Or perhaps the club was so accustomed to violence happening far from its customers that the system did not know how to recognize when it had reached the threshold.

Sebastián stopped for a fraction of a second.

To his right were three guards beside a staircase. Two were talking while watching the hall; the third was monitoring the upper level. Their suits were discreet, but their postures revealed training. None seemed to command the others. They were barriers, not doors.

He continued.

He crossed an area where the smoke was denser. An adult woman exhaled a white cloud from a glass device and let it spread over a table covered with bills. The smoke passed in front of Sebastián’s face. He neither coughed nor slowed his pace. The cloud parted around his body and remained behind.

Some customers began to notice him.

Not because they recognized the Crimson Emperor.

Because of the pajamas.

A couple watched him in confusion. A man with a swollen face let out a brief laugh and discreetly pointed toward him. Another perhaps thought he was part of some eccentricity arranged by the club. No one approached. The administrator, with her confident posture and fixed gaze, made it difficult to decide whether it was a joke or a matter best ignored.

Sebastián gave them no reason to understand him either.

He continued toward the rear of the hall.

There, the décor changed. The fluorescent lights gave way to warmer lamps. The music continued pounding, but it arrived muffled by acoustic panels. A wall covered in dark slats concealed several entrances. Two were service doors. Another led to a narrow corridor through which workers entered carrying trays and security men came out.

The last door had no sign.

It was partially hidden behind an ornamental metal divider. In front of it stood a guard in a black suit, tall, with straight shoulders and short hair. A transparent communicator covered one of his ears. Beneath his jacket he carried a weapon, and an access device glowed on his left wrist.

He neither drank nor watched the dancers.

His attention remained on the hall, the staircases, and anyone who came too close to the door.

Sebastián recognized sufficient authority.

He changed direction. The administrator followed without asking.

The guard saw them approaching and spread his feet slightly. First he looked at the administrator. Then at Sebastián. His attention stopped on the dark pajamas, moved down toward the bloodstains on the sleeve, and ended on his still-spattered hand.

The man did not laugh.

That distinguished him from those lying outside.

He raised a palm before they reached the door.

—This area is private.

Sebastián stopped in front of him.

The music pounded behind them. Red lights crossed his face at intervals, igniting the crimson of his eyes and then extinguishing it beneath a violet shadow. Around them, the club continued breathing alcohol, drugs, sweat, and money, still unaware of the change that had just crossed through its doors.

The guard looked at the blood again.

—Who are you?

The administrator took half a step forward, prepared to answer.

Sebastián spoke first.

—Take me to the head of this place.

The guard kept his hand raised.

For the first time since they had entered, someone inside Club Vesper stopped looking at the pajamas and began observing what was inside them.

The guard did not lower his hand.

For an instant, the music continued pounding behind them with the same blind insistence. The lights changed from violet to red across his face. The transparent communicator remained attached to his ear. His eyes moved from Sebastián to the administrator, waiting for her to explain who that adolescent dressed for sleep was and why he had dried blood on his sleeve.

The administrator drew breath to answer.

Sebastián raised one hand behind him.

He did not need to look at her.

The open palm, motionless at the height of his side, was enough.

Stay still.

The administrator closed her mouth before uttering the first word. There was something final in that gesture, a small order that admitted neither help nor correction. She remained one step behind him, her shoulders firm and the device put away, although a slight tension hardened her jaw.

The guard frowned.

—I asked you who...

The sentence died before it could be completed.

Sebastián released his killing intent.

There was no light.

There was no visible energy.

The air did not explode, nor did the walls tremble. No energy swept through the hall like a storm. The music continued pouring from the speakers, and the lights kept rotating over the platforms, indifferent to what had just opened among everyone present.

The first thing that disappeared was the certainty of remaining alive.

The guard stopped seeing the door behind him.

For an impossible instant, he contemplated his own chest pierced through. Not as a threat or as a future image. The hole was already there. He felt how something had entered beneath his ribs, separated the bone, and torn out his heart with a precision devoid of hatred. He saw it outside his body, dark, wet, still contracting upon a hand he could not make out.

Then he felt himself falling.

But his real body remained upright.

His fingers were still near the weapon.

His mind was already dead.

Sebastián’s intent spread throughout Club Vesper without moving. It did not advance from him like a wave. It was simply everywhere at the same time, occupying the hall, the private booths, the bar, the platforms, and the upper rooms with a certainty so cold that instinct found no other way to understand it.

Everyone died.

A dancer remained suspended beside the pole when she felt her head separate from her neck. She perceived the bladeless cut, the sudden emptiness beneath her jaw, and then the fall. During that nonexistent descent, she saw her own body remain standing on the platform. Blood burst from the open neck in violent pulses, covering the fluorescent paint before the legs gave way.

Her real body tensed.

Her hands lost their grip.

She fell sideways onto the circular base, convulsing while a line of saliva escaped from her mouth.

A man seated in front of her felt something sink its fingers into his face and tear away the upper part of his skull. He experienced cold air entering where bone had once been, the weight of his brain sliding away, and consciousness still trapped inside remains that could no longer hold it. The glass slipped from his hand. The liquor struck the table. His bladder released before his body collapsed against the sofa.

Another customer saw his arms disappear.

He had tried to move one hand inside his jacket. In the death that took him, both limbs were torn from the shoulders before his fingers reached the weapon. He felt the flesh split open, the tendons tear, and the blood run down his sides. Then something split him at the waist. He remained conscious on the floor, turned into two halves that still shared the same terror.

In reality, he only managed to brush the grip.

There he remained.

His hand rigid.

His eyes open.

Unable to draw the weapon because, to him, his arms no longer existed.

On the second floor, a woman staggered out of a private room with her hands around her neck. She felt a deep opening beneath her fingers, although the skin remained intact. She knelt against the railing, trying to contain blood that existed only within her.

A man appeared behind her and struck his head against the frame as he recoiled. He had seen his jaw torn away and then something slowly crush his face against the floor. He continued experiencing the pressure after dying, trapped in the sensation of a skull reduced to pulp.

The doors of the private booths opened.

Some people did not manage to get out.

They fell inside.

Some vomited. Others curled up on the floor, covering wounds they did not have. Several remained motionless, their muscles locked and their eyes unable to look away from the death they had just lived.

It was not an illusion constructed with precise images.

Sebastián did not choose how each one died.

His killing intent was too naked to need forms. It was the desire to kill without rage, without pleasure, and without a single human barrier trying to stop it. The minds trapped beneath it gave shape to that certainty. They invented blades, hands, impacts, and mutilations because they needed a cause for what instinct already knew.

They were dead.

And as long as Sebastián kept that intention released, they would remain dead.

There was no return after the final heartbeat. There was no awakening upon understanding that the body remained whole. Consciousness stayed trapped beyond the end, observing its own remains, feeling absent blood, and waiting for a second death that never came.

The DJ left both hands on the console.

In his experience, an invisible force had pierced his back and opened his torso from within. He saw his ribs emerge through his chest like white fingers, carrying lungs and fragments of flesh with them. He fell onto the controls. The music changed rhythm under the weight of his body, but it did not stop.

The guards reacted better than the others.

Not because they resisted the intent, but because their bodies had been trained to seek weapons even when the mind was already breaking.

Several hands descended toward jackets, belts, and concealed holsters. None completed the movement. One felt his fingers being cut off one by one before touching the grip. Another saw an arm bend backward until the bone pierced the skin and then felt pressure cave in his forehead. A third managed to close his hand around the weapon, but in his death Sebastián was already standing in front of him. He had already torn off his face. He had already left him alive for a few seconds so he could feel the air against the exposed flesh.

The three remained rigid, their hands frozen, prepared to defend themselves against something before which they had already died.

The administrator received only a brush.

Sebastián had moved the center of that intent away from her, but he had not excluded her completely. A minimal strand ran down her back. The cold began at the nape of her neck and descended between her vertebrae, leaving behind the fleeting certainty that someone was too close. For a fraction of a second, she thought she felt a hand resting on her head, not to hold it, but to remove it from her neck with the ease of someone plucking ripe fruit.

She did not see her complete death. She did not fall. But her breathing stopped.

Her fingers closed around the edge of her jacket, and she had to force her legs to maintain their posture. In front of her, Sebastián remained motionless. The dark pajamas, the small bloodstains, the unprepared hair. Nothing in his appearance explained that an entire hall had just experienced the end.

The guard in front of the door was pale.

The hand he had raised remained suspended between them. His arm trembled. His pupils had contracted until they looked like dark points. A layer of sweat covered his forehead, but he did not dare wipe it away.

Sebastián watched him.

—Do not make me repeat myself.

His voice did not need to compete with the music. The guard heard it as though the club had been emptied.

Sebastián took half a step toward him.

—Take me to the head of this place.

The killing intent continued for a few more seconds.

The man felt his chest open again. He saw his heart outside. He felt the world moving away while he remained standing before the thing that had already killed him. His hand slowly descended, but not toward the weapon. He moved it away from his body, opened his fingers to show that he would not try anything, and turned with mechanical rigidity.

He brought his wrist close to the access device.

He failed the first time. The trembling prevented the reader from recognizing the code.

He tried again.

The lock emitted a brief sound.

The guard pushed the door open and moved aside as far as the space allowed. He kept his back straight, his arms pressed against his body, and his gaze fixed on a point on the floor. He no longer looked like a security man. He looked like an animal forced to remain still before a predator whose hunger it did not understand.

Sebastián withdrew his intent.

There was no immediate relief.

Club Vesper remained full of dead people for several seconds, even though none of them were.

The music continued. The lights swept over fallen bodies, broken glasses, urine, vomit, and paralyzed faces. The dancers who had not lost their balance remained clinging to the poles, trembling. Some customers breathed in short sounds, unable to accept that air was entering again. The guards kept their hands near their weapons, but none tried to draw them.

The certainty had withdrawn.

The memory had not.

Sebastián passed through the door.

The administrator followed after forcing her legs to move. As she passed beside the guard, she managed to see a silent tear descend along the man’s face without his expression changing. He did not close the door behind them. He did not seem capable of doing anything that had not been directly ordered.

Beyond the access point, the fluorescent lights disappeared.

A staircase descended beneath the building.

The first steps were made of polished stone, but the luxury began to fade as they went down. The music lost strength with each flight. First it became a muffled beat against the ceiling. Then it was reduced to a vibration that barely reached the walls.

The smell changed as well.

The marijuana smoke, alcohol, and perfumes gave way to cheap disinfectant, dampness, metal, and a human stench confined for far too long.

The administrator walked behind Sebastián.

She could still feel that faint cold at the nape of her neck.

She did not speak.

The staircase ended before a long corridor.

On both sides stretched reinforced-glass display cases, separated by metal frames and doors sealed from the outside. They were not made to hold delicate objects. They were exhibition spaces. Transparent cells built so that everything inside could be observed without needing to open them.

There were people.

Adult men. Adult women. Elderly men and women.

All completely naked.

There were no fabrics, sheets, or garments with which to cover themselves. Some tried to do so with their arms upon noticing movement in the corridor. Others had stopped trying a long time ago. They remained seated against the glass or lying on bare surfaces, their gazes fixed on places that did not exist.

The white ceiling light did not allow enough shadows to hide anything.

It showed ribs, bruises, dry skin, swollen joints, and old marks around wrists and ankles. It showed bodies weakened by lack of food and others kept in better condition, as though their state depended on the buyer for whom they were intended.

Inside each cell was a low metal container.

It looked like a dish for feeding animals.

In some, remnants of a grayish paste mixed with small lumps remained, dried along the edges. In others, there were only stains and finger marks across the bottom. It was not food meant to nourish them. It was an amount calculated to keep them from dying before becoming merchandise.

The water was in similar containers.

Lukewarm. Dirty. Scarce.

An elderly woman raised her face when Sebastián passed in front of her. Her hair was tangled, her shoulders sunken, and a wound had healed poorly over one leg. She did not ask for help. She only looked at him with the resignation of someone who had already seen too many buyers enter.

An elderly man backed away until he struck the rear of his cell.

A woman covered her chest and abdomen with her arms while turning toward the wall. Others approached the glass.

Not with hope.

With fear of being chosen.

The administrator scanned the corridor with her gaze. Her face remained professional, but her eyes hardened. She recorded the locks, the cameras, the numbers marked beside each display case, and the small digital records showing physical data, age, health condition, and availability.

People reduced to inventory.

Sebastián kept walking.

He did not slow down before the elderly. He did not stop before the women. His expression did not change upon seeing the dishes on the floor or the bodies exposed beneath the light.

He was still evaluating.

Compassion was not going to decide for him before he knew the complete structure. Nor was disgust. The fate of the House of Chains would not depend on an immediate reaction, but on the conclusion he reached once he had seen enough.

With every step, the gazes followed him.

An adolescent in pajamas walking beside a woman with a long braid through the center of that human warehouse.

None of the captives knew who he was. They did not know whether he had descended to buy, to choose, or to decide that that entire place had to cease to exist.

Sebastián advanced without looking back. The administrator followed him between the display cases.

And the corridor continued descending toward the heart of the House of Chains.

The corridor did not end after the final display case.

It continued descending at an almost imperceptible incline, just enough for the air to grow colder and the noise of the club to disappear completely. The white lights repeated at regular intervals across the elevated ceiling. On both sides, the exhibition spaces continued showing naked bodies beneath the same impersonal clarity: men, women, elderly men, and elderly women reduced to numbers, measurements, and preservation conditions.

Sebastián advanced without changing his pace.

The administrator walked behind him. She no longer looked at every cell, although she could feel the gazes following her movements from the other side of the glass. Some people approached when they saw them pass. Others retreated, huddled against the walls, afraid that the visit would end with a door opening and a name being chosen.

Several minutes passed like that.

The smell of dampness, disinfectant, and confined bodies became less intense when they left the final row of display cases behind. The corridor widened. The walls changed from reinforced glass to dark panels of coated concrete, and at the far end appeared a double door embedded in a metal frame.

A man stood in front of it.

He was nearly two meters tall.

The black tuxedo he wore had been tailored for a body that was too large. His shoulders filled the jacket; his thick arms slightly deformed the sleeves, and his chest seemed built more to tear down a wall than to guard one. It was not the compact musculature of a light fighter, but the developed mass of a bodybuilder, heavy and visible even beneath the formal clothing.

He had white skin and brown hair combed back.

An old burn covered part of the left side of his face. The scar began near the temple, crossed the eyelid, and descended along the cheekbone until disappearing beside the jaw. The affected eye remained open, although duller than the other.

Behind him stood the door.

It was not an ordinary metal panel. It was built with thick plates of high-hardness ballistic steel, internal reinforcements, and bolts anchored directly into the frame. The electronic lock occupied one of the sides, and a steel handle extended across the right panel. It was a barrier designed to withstand rifle fire and demolition attempts, not to separate two rooms.

The guard saw Sebastián and the administrator while they were still several meters away. His back straightened.

—How did you get down here?

Neither of them answered immediately.

The man moved one arm away from the front of his body and left his hand near his waist.

—Who let you through?

Sebastián stopped a short distance away.

—I am the Crimson Emperor. I came for a meeting.

The guard’s gaze descended over the dark pajamas, stopped on the dried blood on the sleeve, and returned to the crimson eyes. He did not laugh. Nor did he seem to recognize him.

He raised his head and looked at the ceiling for an instant, as though reviewing a mental list.

—I was not informed that there was an appointment tonight.

He looked at them again.

—I will have to confirm it with my boss. Wait here.

Sebastián slowly released the air.

It was not a sigh of exhaustion.

It was the final portion of patience leaving his body.

—I do not have time to wait.

He began to approach.

The guard spread his feet slightly and squared his shoulders in front of the door.

—Then you will have to find it. No one passes until I receive authorization.

Sebastián continued advancing.

—Open the door immediately or disappear from my sight.

The man lowered his gaze toward him. The difference in height was not immense, but it was enough to force him to tilt his face slightly. His mouth curved with contempt.

—Listen, kid. I do not know who allowed you to come down here or why you call yourself emperor, but if you take another step, I am going to break so many of your bones that they will have to carry you out in a box.

Sebastián took the step.

He did not assume a stance.

He did not shift his feet to gain momentum or rotate his hip as part of a technique. There was no measured breathing, visible accumulation of strength, or intention to execute a martial art. He raised his right arm and threw an ordinary punch.

The movement disappeared.

The fist struck between the lower sternum and the upper abdomen.

The fabric of the tuxedo caved in before tearing. The ribs collapsed inward and the sternum split around the knuckles. The guard’s body could not be sent flying. The door held him from behind, trapping him between a mass of steel and a force that had no room to disperse.

Sebastián’s arm continued.

It passed through flesh, organs, and bones without deviating. Fragments of ribs broke and turned inside the torso; some of them were pushed backward along with blood, tissue, and destroyed viscera. The spine gave way along the path. The fist emerged through the back, becoming the center of an irregular opening, and struck the door.

The ballistic steel dented.

The depression appeared first around the knuckles. Then the outer plate tore inward with a dry, metallic sound. The fist pierced it, sinking between the layers and breaking part of the internal reinforcements near the locking mechanism.

Blood, splinters of bone, and remnants of organs were dragged with it.

A broken rib remained embedded between the bent edges of the perforation. Dark tissue was crushed against the sunken steel. Part of the pierced viscera fell to the floor in wet masses; another part remained embedded in the door, mixed with white fragments and torn metal.

The guard opened his mouth.

No threat came out.

Only a thick amount of blood that ran down his chin and stained the front of his shirt.

Sebastián opened his hand inside the armored panel.

His fingers spread like a claw and gripped the deformed reinforcements. Then he pulled his arm back in a single movement. The metal shrieked. Part of the internal structure came out with his hand, enlarging the hole and leaving the edges twisted outward.

The body remained upright for a fraction.

The opening in the torso ran from front to back. Inside, no recognizable continuity remained. Blood and crushed remains detached from the cavity, fell between the man’s legs, and splattered the floor.

Sebastián stepped aside.

The administrator backed away until she was beside the wall.

The guard lost his support and slid down the door. His back left a wide streak of blood across the steel before the body fell onto its side. The impact against the floor forced another portion of viscera out through the wound. Fragments of bone and tissue continued falling afterward, detaching from both the corpse and the hole opened in the panel.

Sebastián looked at the door.

His right hand was covered in blood up to the wrist. Small remnants of flesh and metallic particles remained between his fingers. He made no gesture of discomfort.

He inserted his hand into the perforation again.

He closed his fingers around what remained of the internal reinforcement and pulled.

The bolts resisted for an instant. The frame emitted a deep groan. Then one of the anchors was torn from its housing. Another bent. The electronic lock went dark when the cables inside the panel were severed.

Sebastián pulled again.

The door opened through brute force.

The right panel deformed around the hole and moved toward him with the frame partially torn away. One of the hinges twisted. The steel, built to withstand weapons of war, gave way with a crack that traveled through the entire corridor.

On the other side was a large chamber.

Sebastián barely managed to see it before three men raised their weapons.

The compact rifles were already aimed at the entrance.

They fired.

The detonations trapped inside the chamber struck the walls and returned as dry echoes. The flashes illuminated crates, industrial shelving, and stacked containers. Several short bursts converged on Sebastián’s body.

He moved only one hand.

He did not chase the projectiles after they left the barrels. He had seen the pressure of the fingers on the triggers, the orientation of each weapon, and the exact instant when the chambers would complete the shot. His palm crossed a brief space in front of his chest.

The projectiles disappeared into it.

The silence that followed was heavier than the gunfire.

Sebastián opened his fingers.

Nine deformed bullets rested on his palm, hot, flattened, and stained with the blood of the man he had just pierced through. Some retained part of their shape. Others had been compressed against his fingers until they became irregular pieces of metal.

The three men remained aiming at him.

None fired again.

Sebastián looked at the administrator.

—Wait here.

She stopped beside the body, outside the line of fire.

Sebastián crossed through the destroyed door.

He dropped the bullets in front of the guards.

The projectiles struck the floor one after another. The sound was small. Even so, the three followed them with their eyes as though each fragment had proven something their weapons could no longer dispute.

The man on the left pressed the rifle against his shoulder. The one on the right took half a step back.

The man in the center had white skin, black hair, and an angular face. He kept the weapon raised, but his eyes had stopped on Sebastián’s bloodied hand. Then he looked at the bent door, the hole covered in flesh, and the corpse visible on the other side.

He was not looking at an adolescent.

He was trying to understand what kind of human body could receive bullets from the front, catch them with one hand, and continue walking without even changing its breathing.

Sebastián stopped a few meters away.

—I am the Crimson Emperor.

His voice crossed the chamber without rising.

—I came to see your boss. You take me to him now or you die here.

The men did not respond immediately.

The one on the left looked at the man in the center. The one on the right lowered the barrel a few centimeters.

They had fired first. They had seen the bullets disappear into a bare hand. They had also heard the armored steel give way before that figure crossed the entrance. None of them needed to find out what would happen if Sebastián decided to come one step closer.

The man in the center swallowed.

He slowly lowered the rifle.

—Follow me, please.

The other two imitated the movement.

Sebastián held his gaze for a second. Then he turned his head toward the door.

—Come.

The administrator moved away from the wall and crossed the threshold. She passed beside the corpse without looking down, although she had to avoid the blood and remains scattered in front of the entrance. Upon reaching the other side, she positioned herself behind Sebastián.

The chamber was larger than it had appeared from the corridor.

Rows of wooden crates occupied part of the space. There were sealed metal containers, shelves with wrapped packages, and several tables intended for inspecting merchandise. Some crates bore codes; others, only numbers and dates. The ceiling rose several meters above them, crossed by beams, pipes, and industrial lights.

The black-haired man moved to the front.

His companions walked at the sides, with their rifles lowered and their fingers away from the triggers. None attempted to communicate by radio. None looked directly at Sebastián again for longer than necessary.

They began moving between the containers.

Behind them, the steel door remained open and deformed. The guard’s blood continued running down the armored panel.

And in the center of the chamber, the nine flattened bullets remained on the floor as the only warning Sebastián had decided to grant them.

__________________________________________

END OF Chapter 117 The path continues...

New Chapters are revealed every

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