Splash!

  “G-Get the fuck away from me!” the man screamed, his voice barely cutting through the downpour.

  He bolted down the alley, rain hammering against the pavement. Behind him, a tall figure moved with deliberate steps—dressed in a black suit, unbuttoned, a red tie swaying with each stride.

  The man’s foot slipped on a slick puddle, sending him crashing onto the wet ground. As he scrambled to rise, something cold and metallic pressed against his throat.

  A voice—deep, muffled, and devoid of warmth—followed.

  “Tell me where Isaac Morrison is. No tricks… unless you want to say goodbye to living.”

  Trembling, the man’s eyes darted to the figure looming over him. His breath hitched. The stranger wasn’t wearing a mask—no, it was an entire apple covering his head.

  Fear tightened around his throat as he stammered, “H-He’s… he’s in New York! Preparing for a flight to Sydney!”

  The pressure against his neck vanished as the silver Colt was holstered with a smooth motion. The figure turned without another word, footsteps vanishing into the storm.

  The man sat there, panting, drenched in rain and terror.

  Then, the voice came again—this time, softer, but no less chilling.

  “Tell your boss I’m back.”

  A pause.

  “The Red Hunter has come for Eden.”

  —

  A few days later, in a worn-down apartment, a silver-haired man stood before his bathroom mirror. His green eyes traced every detail of his reflection—the faint scar on his lip, the mess of his unshaven beard—but what held his gaze the longest was the ring on his left hand.

  He closed his eyes. Three silhouettes flickered in his mind—a woman, a little girl, and a boy.

  Annalise. Marie. Scott.

  A breath shuddered from his lips.

  "Forgive me."

  His voice was low, edged with a thick Russian accent, barely above a whisper.

  Turning on the faucet, he let the cold water run over his hands before splashing it onto his face. The sensation grounded him. He exhaled sharply, shutting off the tap and stepping into the dimly lit living room.

  Outside, the city was alive. Police sirens wailed in the distance. The flickering of faulty streetlights cast shadows on the stained walls. Voices drifted from the alley below—a chaotic yet strangely calming symphony of urban life.

  His eyes fell on a half-torn poster taped to the wall.

  FRUIT COMPANY—A BRIGHTER FUTURE FOR ALL.

  Bullshit.

  The so-called non-profit organization, known for its charity work, was nothing more than a front—a global empire dealing in weapons, drugs, and energy. But their true ambition lay elsewhere.

  Nexon energy.

  A volatile power source with untapped potential, extracted from the depths of the Australian underground—Pandemonium. Governments fought over it. Those with control wielded weapons capable of unleashing fire, lightning, wind, and frost upon their enemies. Soldiers became vessels for destruction, infused with its energy.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  And the Fruit Company wanted it all.

  Anatoly clenched his fist, the ring on his finger digging into his skin.

  They took everything from him.

  Now, he would take everything from them.

  He walked to a cabinet and pulled out a black suit with a red tie, slipping it on but leaving it unbuttoned. Next came a red apple mask—smooth, featureless, concealing his entire head.

  To finish, he strode toward the couch and pushed it aside, revealing the wooden floorboards beneath. With a firm grip, he tore them open, exposing a hidden cache of firearms and weapons.

  “Fenrir… Garm,” he muttered, picking up two Colts—one black, one silver. He holstered them at his sides before reaching for the next set.

  Two Uzis. He slid them into the inner pockets of his coat, their weight familiar, reassuring.

  “And finally… Baba Yaga.”

  A triple-barrel shotgun. He slung it over his shoulder, its presence a promise of destruction.

  Stepping onto the balcony, Anatoly vaulted over the railing without hesitation. As he landed, he whistled sharply.

  A sleek motorcycle—silver with purple stripes—roared to life and sped toward him, stopping just inches away.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and checked the latest headlines.

  Dr. Isaac Morrison, renowned scientist, to visit Australia for groundbreaking energy research.

  Lies.

  Anatoly exhaled through his nose, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He mounted the motorcycle, gripping the handles as the engine growled beneath him.

  Tonight, Isaac Morrison was resting at one of the Fruit Company’s luxury hotels.

  By morning, he wouldn’t wake up.

  Drinking a glass of rum, Isaac—a man with long orange hair and a twirling mustache—stared at his laptop screen, reading the email he had just received.

  Wanted by the Fruit Company

  Name: Unknown

  Alias: Apple

  Bounty: 500 million in any currency you want.

  Bring back alive. Not dead. ALIVE.

  Isaac scoffed, shrugging it off as he tossed the laptop aside. Taking another sip from his glass, he reached for his phone and dialed a contact labeled "Banana".

  "So you're tellin' me one of yer bloody comrades is out to kill me?" His voice carried a sharp Irish accent, irritation laced in every word.

  The reply came almost lazily—playful, calm, with a subtle Dutch undertone buried beneath an English accent.

  "Formerly, yes. And the boss wants him alive. Since you're one of his loyal lackeys, he’s willing to pay an extra 500 million."

  Isaac's lips curled into a wide grin.

  "Now, why the hell didn’t ya say so? Consider it done."

  He tossed the phone onto the couch and rose to his feet. Shirtless, his chest was covered in a thick tuft of hair. He grabbed a blue jacket off the chair and threw it on, rolling his shoulders before stepping outside his suite.

  He turned to one of his guards.

  "Tell ‘em I’m stayin’ for an extra night."

  Ding!

  The sound of the hotel entrance bell echoed through the lobby. A second later, alarms blared, their wailing sirens cutting through the air. Metal shutters slammed down over the windows and doors, locking the entire building down.

  Anatoly tilted his head upward, his gaze locking onto a CCTV camera mounted on the ceiling. A voice crackled to life through the hotel speakers.

  "Mr. Apple… I hear from my boss you're here to kill me," the voice taunted, thick with an Irish accent. "Well, I got bad news for ya. I’m no easy target. Now c'mere and find me!"

  Laughter followed, then silence.

  Then—footsteps.

  From every stairway, multiple groups of guards poured in, armed with submachine guns and pistols. The air grew tense as they surrounded Anatoly, their fingers tightening around the triggers, ready to fire.

  Yet he stood still. Calm. Unshaken. A smirk hidden beneath his apple mask.

  "Fine," he muttered in Russian. "I'll play cat."

  With a fluid motion, he spun his body, drawing his pistols in a blur. The moment his fingers squeezed the triggers, the room erupted in gunfire.

  Bullets tore through the air, but Anatoly was faster. Leaping high, he twisted midair—his body spinning like a whirlwind of death. Each shot was precise, calculated. By the time he landed, the floor was littered with bodies.

  Ten seconds. All it took was ten seconds for fifty-eight guards to go down.

  Five hundred eighty-nine left.

  One of the remaining guards stumbled back, eyes wide with horror. "What the fuck?!"

  Bang! Bang!

  Two more shots rang out. The bullets struck their marks—one guard’s heart, another’s forehead. They dropped instantly.

  Anatoly exhaled, rolling his shoulders, his voice carrying an eerie excitement.

  "What a fun game."

  And the massacre continued.

  Click!

  Click!

  Click!

  The sound of empty gun chambers clicking echoed through the room, planting a seed of fear in the remaining guards. As they scrambled to reload, Anatoly was already a step ahead. With swift precision, he reloaded his pistols, then reached into his coat and pulled out three grenades.

  "What a jackpot!" he declared, a grin spreading beneath his mask.

  Boom!

  The explosion rocked the building, sending debris and bodies flying. Thirty-three guards were taken down in an instant. The remaining survivors, now cowering behind the counter, shook with fear.

  Anatoly casually strolled toward the counter, his boots silent on the bloodstained floor. He peeked over it, and the sight of the terrified guards was enough to make his smile widen.

  "Bye bye," he said, his voice soft and mocking as he waved to them.

  Then, without hesitation, he raised both Colts and fired, the shots ringing out in perfect harmony. All five guards fell, their bodies hitting the floor with a thud.

  "One floor down, six more to go," Anatoly muttered, yawning as if bored with the whole affair.

  He turned on his heel, strolling toward the elevator as if the chaos he left in his wake was nothing more than an afterthought.