The sun bled low over the Vltava, turning the water red as rust. Down at the riverside loading yard, everything stank of oil, sweat, and something else – something sour beneath the concrete. Rotten fruit maybe. Or fear.

Victor moved like a shadow among the other dockhands. Just another body hauling crates. Just another pair of boots stomping through grease.

Except he wasn't.

He was a mountain in a jumpsuit – six and a half feet of thick-cut muscle, broad as two men across the back. His arms bulged with ropey, scarred sinew, sleeved in faded tattoos: a coiled serpent around one forearm, a burning skull on the other. The kind of ink that came from old wars and older prisons. His hands were calloused slabs. His neck looked carved, not born. A jagged scar ran along his jawline like someone had once tried to cut his head off and failed.

Thick black hair hung in uneven waves past his ears, damp with sweat. His beard was fuller now – not styled, just grown wild over weeks of underground living. And under all that? A single yellow eye, sharp and inhuman, glinting in the shadow beneath his brow. The other was brown – almost soft by comparison. Together, they made people flinch if they looked too long.

He bent low and hooked one hand under a crate marked Property of the Crown. It was supposed to weigh close to a ton. He lifted it like it was nothing – but then hissed and staggered a half-step, letting his body show strain, feigning a pulled muscle.

"Shit," he grunted, teeth gritted. "Easy, old man. You're not twenty anymore."

He could almost hear Max laughing at that – grinning from behind a broken rib, saying,

"You lift like a librarian, Vic."

Back then, the worst they had to worry about was cracked ribs and coffee rations.

The disguise mattered. Every limp, every strained breath. If they suspected what he was – what he could become – this whole plan would collapse.

He set the crate down hard, let it thud into place with a grunt. Around him, other workers barely noticed. Heads down. Shoulders hunched. This was a place where no one asked questions, especially about men like him.

Victor wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, scanned the yard.

There – along the far fence, two Enforcers in black-red body armour leaned against a truck, watching the crowd with lazy eyes. One of them laughed too loudly at something. The sound cracked across the air like a slap.

Victor's eye narrowed. That one. Big mouth. Arrogant stance. Rifle slung low and loose.

Perfect.

He turned slightly and caught movement in his peripheral vision. A woman huddled with her two children beside a broken crate of apples. One of the kids reached out for a piece of fruit, but the mother pulled him close and shook her head fast. Her hands trembled.

Victor stared a second too long.

This place smells like rot and fear, he thought. Even the kids know.

He turned away, rolled his shoulders, and took a slow breath.

No claws, he told himself. No fangs. Just fists.

He remembered the last time the beast got out. Blood slicked the ground. A boy's face – just a kid – screaming. Not from pain. From fear. From him.

He couldn't let that happen here. Not with Max counting on him. Not with the others watching. He needed to be strong enough.

Then he looked back toward the Enforcers.

And locked eyes.

The one with the laugh raised an eyebrow, smirking as if daring Victor to speak.

Victor smiled.

Challenge accepted.

…………………

Victor stalked up the cobbled lane like a storm looking for a rooftop.

The loading yard spilled into a wider street lined with rusted carts and crooked vendor stalls. The air reeked of frying grease, mouldy tobacco, and cheap alcohol – the kind that stripped paint. People moved slow here, cautious, keeping their heads down. The only ones who walked with swagger were the Enforcers.

Victor found them leaning beside a ration stand – same two as before. Black-red armour, smug posture. One held a cup of something steaming. The other chewed a toothpick, watching a girl across the street hang laundry.

Victor didn't hesitate.

He slammed a boot down near the first Enforcer's foot – loud enough to startle him.

"Hey!" Victor's voice boomed like a cracked bell. "You remember me?"

The Enforcer blinked, turned.

Victor jabbed a thick finger at his chest. "Last week. Loading dock near Barricade Nine. You bumped me. Knocked my vodka to the ground."

The Enforcer glanced at his buddy. Confused.

Victor's jaw clenched. His voice dropped into a snarl. "That was my last bottle."

People were watching now. A merchant froze mid-sale. A woman holding a bundle of laundry backed up two steps. The air tensed like it had taken a breath and was waiting to see if it needed to scream.

Victor leaned in. His finger tapped the Enforcer's breastplate.

"You gonna reimburse me?" he said, voice calm now. "Or does King Tomas handle that personally?"

The Enforcer shoved him hard. "Back off."

The second Enforcer stepped forward, baton already in hand. "This is your only warning."

Victor looked down at the baton.

Then up.

He smiled.

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"Too late."

The first Enforcer went for a swing – wide, predictable. Victor ducked beneath it, fast as a viper, and drove his fist into the man's side. The sound was wet and loud – something cracked. The Enforcer gasped, dropped his rifle, and staggered back, clutching his ribs.

The second tried to club him across the jaw, but Victor was already moving.

He caught the baton mid-swing, yanked the Enforcer forward by the wrist, and headbutted him clean across the nose. Blood sprayed. Before the man could fall, Victor grabbed him by the collar and slammed him face-first into a wooden crate stacked with cabbages. The entire cart collapsed with a crash of splinters and vegetables.

The Enforcer crumpled with it.

The first one was still on his knees, wheezing. Victor stepped over and kicked him once in the chest – just hard enough to flatten him to the street.

He didn't hate this one. Probably had a family. Probably drank himself to sleep. But pawns still guard kings – and sometimes, you had to knock them off the board.

His fingers spasmed – bone shifting, skin crawling. One claw tried to push through. He clenched it back with a snarl. Not yet.

Shouting erupted.

Vendors fled. A bystander screamed. The scent of blood hit the air like a warning flare.

Victor stood over the fallen men, chest heaving – not from effort, but from restraint. His fists ached. His muscles twitched with the temptation to go further.

But not yet.

This was just the opening move.

…………………

The plaza had cleared like water draining from a cracked bowl.

Victor stood in the wreckage – breath steady, fists half-clenched, boots planted wide. One Enforcer groaned behind him, rolling over a smashed crate. The other lay still, face-down in a pile of cabbage pulp.

And then he heard it – the mechanical whine of approaching boots. The kind that came with reinforcements.

Four shadows broke through the alley's edge at once, sprinting in tight formation. Enforcers – but not the standard kind. These were leaner, faster. Contractors. One moved like he was made of jointed steel. Another had skin like tarnished iron. They were enhanced – Victor could see it in the way they cut the air.

Good.

He rolled his neck once, cracking the vertebrae.

Somewhere behind him, a woman whispered, "He's not from here."

A teenager froze mid-recording, thumb trembling over a cheap burner lens. A man dragged his daughter away, shielding her eyes. Victor heard it all. Felt it settle in the silence. The crowd wasn't watching a brawl.

They were watching a message.

The first Enforcer lunged with a baton wrapped in a glowing red chain. Energy buzzed off it in sick little pulses.

Victor ducked under the arc and grabbed the attacker's vest mid-stride, dragging him forward into a vicious knee. Ribs cracked. The man folded. Victor spun and hurled him into a vendor cart stacked with jugs of old oil. The cart exploded in a shriek of glass and fire.

Two more closed in – one from each flank.

Victor pivoted, let the first overcommit, and drove an elbow into his jaw hard enough to lift him off the ground. The other tried to grapple from behind, aiming for a sleeper hold.

Victor grunted, dipped his hips, and twisted hard – tossing the man clean over his shoulder and slamming him down flat onto the cobblestones. The pavement buckled.

That left one.

Iron-skin.

Victor knew the type. Heavy, slow. Thought he was invincible.

The man charged, shoulder lowered.

Victor didn't dodge.

He met the hit with a sidestep and an uppercut to the throat. It didn't drop him – but it staggered him long enough for Victor to kick his legs out, grab the bastard by the collar, and use pure leverage to drive him headfirst through a wooden table.

Wood splintered. The table caved in.

Victor's breath came faster now – not laboured, but alert. His heart was pounding. Not from exhaustion.

From the restraint.

He wanted to shift.

Every nerve in his body begged to let the chimera loose – to unhinge the seal and make these freaks understand what a real monster looked like.

His skin rippled under his sleeves – like something inside was testing the seam. His jaw clicked once, twice, as bone shifted behind it. His vision sharpened, the world etched in too much clarity. And behind it all… that pulse. That whisper. "Let me out."

But that would blow the mission.

He wiped the blood from his temple with the back of his hand. A glancing baton had caught him during the toss – shallow cut. Nothing deep.

He looked at the smear, then at the last man still standing.

Victor grinned. Teeth red.

"That all you've got?"

The last Enforcer charged from behind, thinking he had an opening.

Victor twisted. A perfect pivot on one heel.

He caught the man mid-run, hooked a massive arm beneath his legs, and with one smooth movement, lifted him into the air and slammed him down hard enough to rattle the nearby café awning.

The plaza rang with the echo of impact.

Seven seconds. Four men. Done.

Victor exhaled – slow. Measured.

Still human. Barely.

…………………

The last body hit the ground with a dull thud. Victor straightened, breathing heavy now – not from fatigue, but from holding back.

The plaza was quiet again.

Too quiet.

He heard it first – the low rumble of reinforced tyres against stone. Then the sharp crunch of boots from behind the alley.

Eight more Enforcers surged in from the edge of the street. Four poured out of a matte black van, rifles raised. Three more jogged in from opposite ends, forming a perimeter. The eighth wasn't rushing.

He carried a long-barrelled sidearm. Not rubber. Not stun.

The real thing.

Victor's pupils narrowed. Every muscle tensed, balanced on a knife-edge.

The one with the gun raised it.

Crack.

The shot split the air like a whip.

Screams burst around the plaza. Mothers grabbed children. Vendors toppled their carts. Crates shattered against the cobbles as the crowd scattered in all directions – like rats fleeing fire.

Victor crouched low, one hand against the ground. A hunter's stance. The beast under his skin howled for release.

Shift, it whispered. Rip them apart.

But he didn't.

He forced the scream down his throat and stood slowly, arms half-raised. The chains under his skin twitched.

Eight guns on him now.

"What took you so long?" he said, voice gravelled and mocking.

Two Enforcers charged.

Victor met them like a wall – he shoved the first back with an open palm, slamming him into the hood of the van. But the second jabbed low – a stun baton catching Victor just beneath the ribs. Pain flared sharp and electric. His legs buckled.

He dropped to one knee.

And then they all piled in.

Batons rained from every angle. One cracked his jaw. Another slammed into his thigh. A third drove into his kidney, drawing a grunt from deep in his chest.

Victor didn't cry out.

He growled.

The stone under him was slick with blood now – his or theirs, it barely mattered.

His hands twitched. He could tear through them. He could end this.

Instead, he let them hit.

Because the plan mattered more.

Because Max needed them inside.

"Bastards hit like paper," he spat through cracked lips, blood on his teeth. "I've had rougher hugs from Chloe."

The lead Enforcer slammed a knee into his back.

Cuffs clicked shut around his wrists – thick metal, no give. They yanked him upright, half-dragging, half-hauling him toward the van. Victor stumbled once, then surged – just enough to throw one of them off-balance.

They shrieked like he'd grown wings.

He grinned through the blood. "Scared already?"

The door slammed open.

And they threw him in.

…………………

The van was different from the one they took the twins in.

No leather. No silence pretending to be sterile.

This one was metal. Rusted at the seams. Bolted benches slick with old blood and newer piss. It stank of fear, sweat, and ozone – the kind of scent that clung under your nails no matter how long you scrubbed.

Victor lay on his side. Cuffed behind his back. His cheek pressed against the cold floor, swelling fast. One eye already bruised shut. His ribs ached where the baton had cracked something soft.

He tasted copper and diesel. Couldn't tell which one was worse.

Across from him, an Enforcer sat with his rifle cradled low – not tight, not tense. Just… waiting. Casual.

Like Victor was done.

Victor huffed a laugh, low and wet.

"You boys," he muttered, lips split and curling, "are in for a surprise."

The Enforcer didn't flinch. Didn't speak.

The van rattled over a pothole. Victor's skull thunked against the wall. He didn't react.

Outside the narrow slit of a window, the city blurred past – but not the Old Town now. The deeper parts. The rot. Fires burned in steel drums. Trash smouldered in alleys. Windows were boarded up from the inside. Whole buildings were dark except for the flicker of static screens broadcasting King Tomas's grin.

Victor breathed through his nose. Counted the seconds between turns. Noted how long they stayed above ground.

Every bump mapped a route in his mind.

Three left turns. One long slope. That meant a tunnel near the eastern substation. They were headed underground – close to the old palace vaults. Probably blacksite intake. Fewer witnesses that way.

He closed his good eye.

He pictured Max's eyes – hollow, sunken, but still burning. Still fighting.

Victor grinned, even with blood in his teeth.

You better still be in there, brother. I'm coming.

The trap was sprung.

Now came the hard part.

Don't die before I get to you, brother.

He didn't whisper it. Just held the thought like a blade in his chest

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