As he emerged from the bathroom, he was courteously invited to cross over and take a seat on the opposite side of the table from Katerina. The room exuded a gentle warmth, perfumed with the inviting aroma of home-cooked delicacies. Mira, with deliberate care, pced rge, steaming bowls before them. Each bowl overflowed with luxuriant stewed cabbage and slices of tender, smoked sausage, their rich, savory perfumes mingling in the ambient air. Alongside, she arranged a pte of crusty bread whose golden, crackling exterior beckoned them, hinting at the warmth and pillowy softness within.
Once the table was fully set, they all seated themselves. The elderly woman and her granddaughter closed their eyes in silent prayer while Mark, too, bowed his head in a moment of reflection—an act slightly foreign for someone who, despite a childhood punctuated by church attendance, no longer considered himself particurly religious.
After the grace was spoken, the family began to eat. The delicate clink of cutlery against ceramic merged harmoniously with the lingering aromas of the meal. Mira’s warm, engaging smile broadened as she began recounting the day’s events to her granddaughter, her tone gentle and full of reminiscence. The conversation seamlessly drifted toward Mark, who leaned forward with a subtle eagerness, ready to share his own tidings. With animated excitement, he described his recent arrival in town, a hint of exhiration in his voice that captured Katerina’s attention immediately. In response, she interjected with bright enthusiasm, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“Did you come from New York, or are you from another state entirely?”
He chuckled wryly, remarking, “Well, at least I’m in America or some alternate reality version of it.” He continued, “I’m from New York, though I was raised in the countryside. I have come to Sin City for work and all that entails.” Mira clicked her tongue softly in amusement.
“You have a trade, young man? Are you a porter or perhaps a bouncer of some sort?” she inquired, her hand gesturing as she scooped up another helping of stew with a morsel of bread. “I am a mailman, actually. I did a bit of boxing in my youth, but now I deliver packages. That’s what I do.” Mira then turned to her granddaughter, a proud smile pying on her lips. “See, and he can work for the state, Katerina.” At this, the blonde young woman’s cheeks blossomed with a deep blush, and as Mira shifted her attention back to Mark, she began expining softly, “She’s a little shy but she—”
Before she could finish her sentence, BOOM—a thunderous gunshot shattered the calm. Mark spun around just in time to see the shotgun shell tear through the wooden door, its violent force rending into Mira’s body. The explosion hurled her violently from her chair, her fragile figure crumpling onto the floor. Her chest rose and fell in desperate, uneven gasps as a spreading dark stain marred her clothing. Blood pooled, stark against her pale skin, as chaos erupted around them. Shouts rang out from beyond the splintered doorway, accompanied by a rapid retreat of footsteps fading into the distance.
Mark’s heart pounded uncontrolbly as he rushed forward, cradling Mira in his arms, his face etched with desperation and grief. Nearby, Katerina sank to her knees, her hands instinctively raised over her head as she screamed—a piercing cry of terror and helplessness that cut through the pandemonium. Mira shuddered in Mark’s arms one final time. With a heavy heart, he stood up and gently id her on the couch before venturing out the door, where a band of thugs had congregated in the hallway. Their ranks were made up rgely of women with a scattering of men wielding guns and bdes. At the forefront stood a formidable woman, cd in form-fitting attire paired with a powered exosuit. Her long, fiery red hair cascaded down her shoulders, radiating a fierce presence characteristic of a Latina warrior, and her hands gripped menacing spiked batons fashioned from cold, unforgiving metal.
“That was a warning shot. If you don’t pay to py then it will be much worse for you,” the formidable woman decred coolly. In response, Mark balled his fists tightly and gred at her with a storm of anger. “You killed an old dy who was just trying to survive and make it!” he spat, his voice raw with fury. “You sick fuck.” The Latina merely shrugged nonchantly, her tone dismissive. “This could have all been avoided if—” she began, but her words were abruptly cut off.
Without warning, Mark charged forward like a force of nature, his movements blurring into a furious storm as he plunged into the heart of the gang. His fists, clenched tight with raw, unyielding rage, left no room for hesitation as he closed the distance between himself and the attackers. The thugs scarcely had a moment to register his rapid approach before they found themselves overwhelmed by his superhuman strength and agility, transforming the narrow hallway into a chaotic battleground filled with surprise and violence.
The woman with the spiked batons, a menacing figure at the center of the melee, swung at him with ruthless determination—but Mark was swifter still. With a deft twist, he dodged her vicious strikes, his reflexes a testament to years spent honing his boxing prowess. As she barked orders in a desperate attempt to rally her crew, the remaining seven thugs quickly encircled him, their eyes filled with murderous intent as they brandished their weapons with reckless abandon.
Mark's heart thundered with a turbulent mix of anger and resolve. He knew in that tense, fragile instant that time was of the essence if he were to shield Katerina and avenge Mira. One thug lunged with a gleaming knife, but Mark, with a nimble dodge, slipped beneath the attack and drove his shoulder fiercely into the man’s gut, sending him crashing to the floor. Another adversary aimed a gun, yet before she could even pull the trigger, Mark was upon her, disarming her with a bone-crunching strike that reverberated through the hall. The air became thick with tension as the ctter of scattered metal echoed off the walls, each sound a grim testament to his relentless assault. His strikes—a precise combination of punches and kicks—nded with devastating efficiency, methodically neutralizing each threat in his path.
In the midst of the tumult, Mark moved through the adversaries like an unstoppable whirlwind, his actions ruthless and deliberate. And yet, even as he dismantled the gang with an intimidating blend of speed and strength, his eyes remained locked on the formidable woman wielding the batons. She stood defiantly, her daring gaze daring him to challenge her further. As the surrounding threats dwindled and were swiftly dispatched, Mark’s focus sharpened into a singur target: her. He knew instantly that she was the true mastermind behind this pandemonium, and he was determined that she would not escape his wrath without a fierce confrontation.
With the hall momentarily cleared of distractions, they faced off in a silent, tension-filled standoff. The electricity in the air was palpable as Mark noted the confident grip with which she held her spiked batons—a grip that spoke of her own superhuman prowess. She unched a brutal swing, the batons slicing through the air with lethal intent, but Mark was equally agile. He ducked and weaved to dodge the deadly arc of metal, his anticipation honed from decades of combat. Her strength and speed were unmistakably equal to his own, and the realization solidified: this battle would be unlike the rest. Although she managed to nd a few gncing blows—the spikes raking his skin and etching thin, stinging cuts that soon stained his clothes with fresh blood—the duel escated into a deadly dance of skill and determination.
Each precise strike and countermove echoed violently against the cold, narrow walls as the two combatants pushed themselves to the limits of their abilities. Mark’s persistence began to prevail; she faltered, overextending on a powerful baton swing. Seizing the opportunity, he lunged forward with explosive force. With a crushing kick fueled by his unyielding determination, he sent her hurtling through a window in the hallway. Shards of gss rained down like deadly confetti around her as she was propelled out into the dark night, the city's scattered lights below framing her abrupt, harrowing fall from the 9th floor of Tower 1.
Mark peered out through the jagged remnants of the broken window, his expression turning to one of surprised awe as he watched her plummet. The distance seemed to stretch endlessly until, astonishingly, she nded gracefully on her feet. “I gotta get Katerina out of here. This bitch just fell from 9 stories like it was nothing,” he muttered grimly, his voice a blend of shock and unwavering resolve.
