CHAPTER 17: The Warriors' Dance

CHAPTER 17: The Warriors' Dance

The air in the shattered suite smelled of gunpowder, blood, and desecrated luxury. Fénix leaned against the wall, feeling the dull throb in his arm where the bullet had grazed him. The wound was superficial—a bleeding groove that was already beginning to close—but the stinging pain reminded him that even immortals could feel.

Alucard observed the chaos with a smile of perverse appreciation.

"Well, that was fun," he said, wiping a splash of blood from his cheek with his thumb. "But our time here has expired."

Fénix looked at the bodies scattered on the floor.

"Fun? Does your definition of fun include massacring tactical teams?"

"Only on Tuesdays," Alucard adjusted his shirt collar. "Now let's move. Reinforcements will arrive soon, and I'd prefer not to stain another Tom Ford suit."

They walked toward the elevator, their steps crunching on glass and wood debris. When the doors opened, six soldiers with assault rifles were waiting. Alucard sighed, as if he'd been offered a boring canapé at a party.

"Mendokusē," he murmured, and before the men could pull their triggers, their heads rolled across the floor in a perfect arc of arterial blood.

Fénix didn't even blink. The blood splashed his face, warm and thick.

"You could warn me before doing that."

"And ruin the surprise?" Alucard stepped into the elevator. "You're a lycan, Fénix. Blood should be your natural perfume."

The descent was silent, save for the dripping of blood on the steel floor.

At Enid Corp., the office on the 42nd floor was quiet, broken only by the hum of the servers. Enid watched her laptop screen, where a Japanese news channel showed blurry images of the Imperial Hotel surrounded by police vehicles.

"...unprecedented massacre... dozens of officers dead... two foreigners sought..."

Enid clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white. With a sharp blow, she sent the laptop flying against the wall, where it exploded in a shower of silicon and fury.

She dialed Alucard's number with trembling fingers.

"Alucard!" she roared when he answered. "What the hell did you do?! I told you discretion!"

On the other end, in the elevator, Alucard smiled. The sound of sirens filtered through from outside.

"Dear Enid, always so dramatic. It was a... cultural exchange. They shot first."

"This is a diplomatic catastrophe! Return immediately!"

"Sorry, ma chère, but we have commitments," Alucard crushed the phone in his hand. "Goodbye, expensive toy."

Fénix looked at him in disbelief.

"Did you just destroy an iPhone for drama?"

"It was a Samsung. Even worse." Alucard pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped his fingers. "Now, concentrate. We have guests."

The elevator doors opened to the lobby. Roberto da Silva was there, leaning against a marble column as if waiting for a bus. He wore an impeccable black suit that screamed expensive mercenary.

"Boa tarde, senhores," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Roberto, from Antigen. I've come to talk."

Alucard studied the man like a gourmet examining a dubious dish.

"Talk. How charming. Does that include not decapitating us?"

"Claro que sim," Roberto extended his empty hands. "Just a civilized dialogue."

Fénix noticed the accent—Portuguese mixed with Spanish, with that Brazilian lilt that sounded like beaches and danger.

"And if we prefer the uncivilized version?" asked Fénix, ready to attack.

Roberto laughed—a harsh sound like broken glass.

"Não seria inteligente." He pointed outside, where shadows moved behind the windows. "I have an army out there. But..." his smile widened, "...we can make this fun."

Alucard looked at Fénix.

"What do you say, pup? A ballroom dance or a slaughterhouse?"

"I hate dancing," growled Fénix.

"Excellent." Alucard turned to Roberto. "Sorry, friend. The kid's not in the mood."

Roberto nodded, almost with respect.

"Então seja assim." (Then so be it.)

And then he moved.

He was a blur of black suit and steel fists. He hit Fénix in the stomach with a force that sent him crashing into the opposite wall. The plaster cracked.

"Vamos, lycanzinho!" shouted Roberto. "Mostra-me esa forma famosa!" (Come on, little lycan! Show me that famous form!)

Fénix got up, spitting blood. His broken rib was already fusing.

"Why?" he smiled sarcastically. "Don't you like me the way I am?"

Roberto attacked again, but this time Fénix dodged—only for a piece of marble to break off from the ceiling and hit him in the shoulder. His collarbone cracked.

"Telekinesis!" Alucard observed with interest. "How cliché."

Roberto launched another piece of marble. Fénix barely dodged it, but the next one hit him in the leg, knocking him down.

"Por que não transformas?" asked Roberto, kicking him in the ribs. "Medo?" (Why don't you transform? Afraid?)

Fénix rolled, avoiding another kick.

"Maybe I'm on strike!" he spat blood. "Lycans' unions are very strict!"

Roberto laughed—a genuine laugh this time—and raised his hand for the final blow.