Hospital Debauchery

But before Devon could react, an armored man emerged from the smoke like a specter, his black helmet gleaming under the streetlights, rifle slung across his back, boots pounding the pavement with purpose. His visor hid his face, but his movements were swift, ruthless, a predator closing in.

Devon froze, the man swung his rifle butt down like a sledgehammer, cracking it against Devon's head with a thud that exploded white-hot pain through his skull. Stars burst, the world spinning black, and Devon's knees buckled, his body crumpling like a broken doll. Darkness swallowed him whole, his last thought the system's warning fading into silence.

The armored man grabbed his collar with a rough yank, dragging him across the pavement, Devon's heels scraping asphalt, his limp arms trailing through glass and dirt, leaving a smeared trail of blood.

The security guards saw it, their fight surging with desperate fury. "They've got Devon!" the scarred lead guard roared, charging through the hail of bullets like a man possessed, his pistol blazing, dropping an armored man with a headshot that shattered the visor, blood spraying dark as the body collapsed.

Claudia rolled from cover, her pistol popping sharp and fast, her shots forcing two armored men back into the smoke, her shoulder wound bleeding but her aim deadly, her face a mask of grim resolve.

"Cover me!" she shouted, dodging a burst that chipped the limo's fender with a spark, metal screeching.

Markus surged forward, his massive frame a shield, tackling an armored man with a bone-crunching thud, the two rolling across the pavement in a brutal tangle. Markus pounded fists into the man's vest, the impact booming, but the armored man swung back, his elbow cracking against Markus's jaw, blood flying from a split lip.

The guards fought like demons, their numbers dwindling but their fire fierce, guns barking in a relentless storm, dropping three armored men in a hail of lead, bodies jerking and falling with heavy thuds, blood pooling like ink on the road.

But the armored men were a tidal wave, they held the line, bullets flying like a swarm of death, pinning the guards with suppressive fire that shredded concrete and metal. A guard went down, a bullet to the thigh, blood gushing as he crawled to cover, still firing one-handed, his face twisted in agony.

The woman guard, leg bleeding, rolled behind a wheel, her submachine gun rattling, dropping another armored man with a burst to the chest, his vest sparking but not enough to save him. The scarred lead guard lobbed another smoke grenade, the cloud thickening, but the armored men pushed through, their rifles chattering without pause, their black forms like ghosts in the fog, fearless and unrelenting.

As the guards fought, four armored men broke off, hauling Devon's limp body toward a waiting van that screeched up from a dark alley, its tires smoking as it skidded to a stop. They moved fast, disciplined, dragging Devon's dead weight, his head lolling, blood smearing from his wound.

The van's doors slammed open, and they threw him inside like a sack, the doors banging shut with a finality that cut through the gunfire like a blade. The engine revved, a guttural snarl, and the van peeled away, tires screaming on the pavement, taillights fading red into the night like blood trails in the dark, swallowed by Geneva's maze of streets.

The remaining armored men stayed, their guns blazing with suicidal fury, as if life meant nothing and the fight was all. One took a bullet to the chest, his vest soaking it, staggering him back with a grunt, but he charged forward, rifle spitting rounds until a guard's shot caught his neck, dropping him in a heap, blood pooling.

Another leaped over a car hood, firing wild, bullets raking the ground, forcing the woman guard to dive, her leg wound slowing her but her gun still barking, clipping his arm. The scarred lead guard bellowed, "Fall back! Call for backup!" his voice hoarse over the chaos, but the armored men pressed harder, their black forms like shadows from hell, bullets flying nonstop, no retreat, no mercy.

One tackled a guard, the two rolling in a brutal grapple, fists and boots flying, the guard's nose crunching under a headbutt, blood spraying. Another armored man took a shot to the leg but kept firing, dragging himself forward, his rifle chattering until he collapsed, lifeless.

Hold the line! Don't let them through!" His voice was raw, nearly drowned by the crack-crack-crack of gunfire and the screams of the wounded.

The woman guard, her leg now slick with blood, rolled behind a shattered SUV, her submachine gun rattling as she dropped another armored man with a burst to the chest, his body jerking before collapsing in a heap.

Markus grappled with an attacker on the pavement, his fist cracking against a helmet with a dull thud, the armored man swinging back with a rifle butt that split Markus's brow, blood streaming into his eyes. Claudia, crouched by the wrecked limo, fired her pistol with surgical precision, her shoulder wound leaking but her aim steady, forcing two armored men back into the smoke.

Suddenly, a shift fury tipped the scales. The scarred lead guard lobbed a final flashbang, the blast disorienting four armored men, their wild shots spraying into the night. The woman guard, ignoring her bleeding leg, surged forward, her submachine gun roaring, dropping two with precise bursts to their necks, blood gushing as they fell.

The guards rallied, their fire tightening, shots finding weak points—joints, necks, visors. One by one, the armored men fell, their relentless wave breaking under the guards' desperate stand. A final headshot from the scarred lead guard dropped the last attacker, his rifle clattering silent, the street falling into a sudden, eerie hush, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the distant wail of sirens creeping closer.

The security team, battered and bloodied, staggered together, their breath heaving in clouds against the cold night air. Claudia stood, her shoulder wound staining her blazer, her pistol still gripped tight, her eyes scanning the carnage—wrecked SUVs, the twisted limo, bodies sprawled in pools of blood, glass and shell casings glittering like grim confetti.

Markus, wiping blood from his brow, leaned against the limo, his big frame sagging with exhaustion. The woman guard limped over, her face pale but fierce, her gun lowered but ready. The scarred lead guard, his arm hanging limp, kicked a fallen rifle away from an armored body, spitting on the ground. "Clear," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. The team tightened their circle, eyes darting to the shadows, the weight of their failure sinking in, Devon was gone.

Claudia's gaze swept the scene, her jaw tightening, and then she snapped, her voice ripping through the silence like a whip. "What the hell?!" Her scream echoed off the buildings, raw with fury and disbelief, her calm facade shattered.

"How did we let this happen? How did they take him right under our noses?!" Her hands shook, not from fear but from rage, her pistol still clenched as if she could shoot the night itself.

Markus pressed a hand to his forehead, smearing blood across his skin, his eyes distant with disappointment. "We had him," he muttered, voice low and thick, "we had him right here, and they just… walked through us." He shook his head, replaying the chaos in his mind, how had a team of pros, armed and trained, been outmatched so fast? The woman guard, clutching her bleeding leg, spat on the ground, her voice bitter. "They were ready for us. Planned every damn step." The scarred lead guard said nothing, his face grim as he scanned the bodies, checking for any sign of life, finding none.

A sharp buzz cut through the tension, Claudia's phone, vibrating in her pocket. She pulled it out, the screen glowing with a single name, Yvonne. Her stomach dropped, her throat tightening as she stared at the caller ID.

The team froze, their eyes on her, the air heavy with dread. Claudia hesitated, her thumb hovering over the accept button, sweat beading on her brow despite the chill. She knew what was coming, but there was no dodging it.

Taking a deep breath, she tapped the screen, and Yvonne's voice exploded through the speaker, loud and furious, a storm breaking loose. "Claudia! What the hell happened out there?! I just got word—Devon's gone, taken right from under you! How could you let this happen? Do you have any idea what's at stake?!"

Her words were a barrage, each one hitting like a punch, her rage so palpable Claudia could almost feel it through the phone. "I trusted you! Trusted all of you! And you let a bunch of hired guns waltz in and take him? Explain yourself, now!"

Claudia's face flushed, sweat trickling down her temple, her voice stammering as she tried to respond. "Yvonne, we—we were hit hard. They came out of nowhere, a truck, armored men, heavy weapons. We fought, we took them down, but they—" Yvonne cut her off, her voice rising to a near scream.

"Fought? You fought and lost him! Do you know what he means to this project? To me? You had one job, Claudia, one damn job! And now he's gone, probably halfway to God-knows-where, and you're standing there with nothing?!"

Claudia swallowed hard, her hand trembling, the phone hot against her ear. Yvonne kept going, her words a torrent of blame and frustration, detailing the stakes, the years of planning, the consequences of failure—each sentence piling on the guilt, making Claudia's chest tighten.

The team stood silent, heads bowed, the weight of Yvonne's rage pressing down like a storm cloud. Markus muttered under his breath, "Should've seen it coming," his hand still on his forehead, as if he could press the failure out of his mind.

Claudia finally found her voice, low and strained. "We're tracking the van now, Yvonne. We've got a signal on his phone, it is faint but active. We'll find him."

Yvonne's scoff crackled through the speaker. "You'd better, Claudia. You'd better, or I swear, heads will roll, starting with yours." The call cut off, leaving a ringing silence. Claudia stared at the phone, her face pale, then shoved it into her pocket, turning to the team.

"You heard her. We move, now. Find that signal, find him." The guards nodded, grim and determined, already pulling gear from the wrecked SUVs, checking weapons, ignoring their wounds. The sirens were closer now, red and blue lights flashing in the distance, but they had no time to wait—Devon was out there, and every second counted.

Meanwhile, in a dim warehouse on the edge of Geneva, the air was damp and heavy with the smell of rust and old oil. The space was a maze of stacked crates, rusted machinery, and flickering fluorescent lights that cast long, Devon sat slumped in a metal chair, his wrists bound tight behind him with coarse rope that bit into his skin.

His head throbbed, a dull, pounding ache radiating from where the rifle butt had struck, dried blood crusting his forehead, matting his hair. His suit was torn, smeared with dirt and blood, his body aching from bruises that pulsed with every heartbeat. The warehouse was cold, the chill seeping through his clothes, but he was out cold, his breathing shallow, head lolling forward.

Around him stood the armored men from the ambush, their black gear now streaked with dust and blood, rifles slung across their backs or gripped loosely in gloved hands. Their visors were up, revealing hard faces scarred, unshaven, eyes cold and calculating. One leaned against a crate, cleaning a knife with a slow, deliberate scrape, the blade glinting under the flickering lights.

Another stood by a rusted table, unloading a duffel bag packed with more weapons, pistols, grenades, a sleek sniper rifle with each clunk of metal on metal echoing in the hollow space. A third man, taller and broader, barked orders in a low, guttural voice, his accent thick but unplaceable.

"Check the perimeter. No surprises." Two others nodded, disappearing into the shadows, their boots thudding on the concrete.

The tall man turned to Devon, his face unreadable, and grabbed a dented metal bucket from the floor. Water sloshed inside, murky and cold. Without a word, he flung it at Devon's face, the icy liquid hitting like a slap, soaking his shirt, stinging the cut on his brow. Devon jerked awake, gasping, his head snapping up as water dripped from his chin, his vision blurry but sharpening fast. The pain in his skull roared back, a white-hot pulse that made him wince, but his eyes darted around, taking in the warehouse the crates, the armed men, the chains swaying above.