Chapter 3 - The Wolf at the Door"Let's see your little rescuers, then!" Marcus snarled, dragging me out of the ruined bathroom and across the hardwood floor of the living room.
Blood smeared across the pristine white walls where my arm brushed against them. Every movement felt like liquid fire pouring through my bones, but I kept my eyes fixed on the front door.
T-minus three minutes.
Suddenly, the heavy steel-reinforced front door of our apartment didn't just unlock—it bulged inward with a deafening screech of rending metal. A massive hydraulic battering ram had struck the deadbolts from the outside.
BOOM.
The second strike blew the heavy door completely off its hinges, sending it crashing into the living room coffee table, shattering it into pieces.
Marcus froze, his hand loosening its grip on my hair. He stared in absolute horror at the doorway.
Out of the smoke and dust emerged four towering figures. They looked less like human beings and more like an unstoppable force of nature. Their weapons were raised, lasers painting the walls with deadly precision.
And right at the front stood my father.
He wasn't wearing a helmet. His hair was streaked with gray, his face etched with decades of brutal combat, and his eyes locked onto Marcus with a predatory intensity that made the air in the room drop twenty degrees.
"Let go of my daughter," my father said.
It wasn't a shout. It was a low, gravelly whisper that carried more terror than a roaring lion.
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Marcus swallowed hard, his bravado instantly evaporating. He tried to shove me forward as a human shield, stammering, "W-Wait! You don't understand! She's my wife! She's crazy—"
My father didn't let him finish the sentence.
