The group emerged from the alley and stepped out onto Venet Street—
—and stopped dead in their tracks.
What lay before them wasn't a house.
It wasn't even a mansion.
It was a compound.
High concrete walls ringed the entire block, reinforced with steel plating and crowned with coils of razor wire. Watchtowers rose at the corners like sentinels, each staffed with armed guards in black tactical gear. Floodlights were mounted every twenty feet despite it being broad daylight, their lenses slowly sweeping back and forth in practiced arcs. Heavy metal gates—thick enough to stop a truck—sealed every entrance, each marked with the subtle but unmistakable sigil of an old-world crime family.
The air itself felt different here. Tense. Controlled. The kind of place where even the neighborhood noise seemed to lower its volume out of fear.
Blitzø let out a low whistle.
"Well shit," he said appreciatively. "That's… a lot. Definitely should've charged five times more for this one."
Moxxie stared, jaw tight. "Sir, this isn't just private security. That's paramilitary. They have overlapping patrol routes, external redundancies, and—oh Satan—they're running thermal cameras."
Millie cracked her knuckles, eyes sparkling. "Aw, it's kinda sweet. Like a family home."
Loona snorted. "Yeah. A family of psychopaths."
Blitzø turned suddenly, eyes snapping to Max with the manic gleam of inspiration that never meant anything good.
"This place belongs to your ex, right?" he said brightly. "Perfect. You know all the sneaky ways in. Go kill her."
Max didn't react at first.
His gaze was fixed on the compound, ears flattened, tail stiff behind him. The smell hit him a second later—old blood, gun oil, sweat, fear. Even through the illusion suppressing most of his wolf senses, his body remembered this place.
He rolled his shoulders once, slow and deliberate.
"She wasn't my ex," Max said flatly. "Lisa was part of my old gang. This is a Center Branch—a political marriage compound. She was married off as tribute to stabilize alliances between families. I went to the wedding."
Blitzø waved a hand. "Details."
"She hated her husband," Max continued, voice low. "Everyone knew it. She smiled when she had to. Flinched when he touched her."
Blitzø shrugged. "Yeah, yeah. Tragic. Just get in, kill her—and only her—and try not to blow up the block. Festival's tomorrow. I don't wanna deal with extra cleanup."
Max didn't answer.
Because Blitzø was wrong.
Lisa wasn't the problem.
Vance was.
Vance—her husband, her owner, her jailer—was one of the men who had orchestrated Max's human death. The one who sent the message. The one who chose the location. The one who stood there and watched while Max bled out on cold pavement.
Max's tail flicked once, sharp and angry.
"Fine," Max said at last. "I'll kill as little as possible."
A beat.
"No promises it's just her."
Without waiting for approval, he stepped away from the group and began walking toward the side gate.
Moxxie grabbed Blitzø's sleeve.
"Sir," he hissed, "shouldn't we at least provide overwatch? This feels… morally questionable, even for us."
Blitzø snorted. "Relax, Moxx. He'll be fine. I've seen Overlords walk off worse. Worst-case scenario? Bloodbath. Fewer clients like these assholes. Win-win."
Moxxie stared, horrified.
Millie just grinned wider.
Max reached the side gate as a guard shift changed.
Perfect timing.
A lone guard approached, rifle slung casually, posture relaxed in the way only people who've never faced consequences can afford.
"Hey!" the guard barked. "You can't be here—"
A shadow tendril snapped up from beneath his feet.
The guard stumbled, slammed back-first into the gate with a grunt. Before he could shout, Max was on him, one hand gripping his throat.
A sharp twist.
A wet crack.
The body went limp.
"Sorry, man," Max muttered—not apologetic, just factual.
Purple mist coiled around the corpse as Max whispered a single word.
"Beelzebub."
The body dissolved into nothingness, leaving behind only a faint residue of heat—and a jangling sound.
Keys clattered to the ground.
"Oh," Max said dryly, picking them up. "Convenient."
He shapeshifted, bones flowing, features rearranging until he wore the guard's face and uniform.
The illusion stopped at the arm.
Still missing.
He stared at the stump, unimpressed.
"Fantastic," he muttered. "Wrong weather for the 'lost my coat' excuse."
With a sigh, his body liquefied into a ribbon of red-black slime, slid through the lock mechanism itself, and reformed on the other side just as another guard rounded the corner.
The guard squinted. "Hey—what're you doing? Get back to your post."
"Yes, sir," Max replied in the dead man's voice. "Need a replacement clearance card. Tyrone said he'd issue me a new one. Old one got destroyed."
The guard frowned. "Tyrone's still head of security, yeah. But protocol—lemme confirm."
Max subtly nudged the radio frequencies, twisting them just enough.
"Tyrone, got Charles asking about a replacement card. Confirm?"
The radio screeched.
Then a deep, distorted voice blasted through, layered with static.
"YES! Now let him GO so he can get his damn card and BACK TO HIS POST!"
The guard jumped. "Jeez—alright, go!"
He turned—
And noticed the missing arm.
"What the—"
CRACK.
The silenced shot punched through his skull.
Max exhaled slowly.
"Well," he said, stepping over the body, "there goes the quiet approach."
Alarms screamed to life.
Red lights flared.
"Great," Max muttered, sprinting. "Five minutes before full lockdown."
He hit the security room door.
Locked.
"Fine."
The handle crumpled in his grip. The door flew open.
Three guards inside froze as Max whispered, voice carrying compulsion woven into every syllable.
"Don't move. Don't speak."
They obeyed.
Three shots. Three bodies.
Max turned to the screens.
"Protocol hasn't changed," he murmured, scanning feeds. "Interior sweep. No cameras in Lisa's room. Vance always demanded privacy for his sick shit."
His jaw clenched.
He aimed at a monitor and fired.
The bullet punched through the screen, through the camera, through a guard's skull down the hall, and buried itself in concrete.
"Oh," Max said quietly. "That's… neat."
Two more shots.
Two more guards down.
Then Max dissolved into crackling red electricity, surged through the camera wiring, and reformed outside Lisa's door.
The smell hit him instantly.
Copper. Rot. Pain.
He gagged.
"Goddamn wolf senses," he hissed. "Should've turned into a snake."
He kicked the door off its hinges.
The room was hell.
Bodies. Broken. Discarded.
Girls. Women. Some barely more than children.
Lisa was tied to a chair, burned, cut, breathing—but empty.
Vance stood naked and blood-soaked, knife in hand.
"What the hell are you doing in here?!" he roared.
Max shot him.
Right in the dick.
Vance collapsed screaming.
Max ignored him.
He knelt before Lisa, gently removing the gag.
"Lisa," he whispered.
Her eyes focused.
Recognition flickered.
"You don't need to stay," Max said softly. "Anthony's in Hell. He misses you."
Tears slid down her cheeks.
"One clean shot," Max promised. "Peaceful."
She nodded.
He fired.
Then turned back to Vance.
"No clean death for you."
The pentagram flared.
"Asmodeus," Max said coldly. "I have a gift."
Green fire erupted.
Vance screamed.
Then silence.
Max stood alone.
"Rest easy," he whispered.
And vanished.