CHAPTER 66: The Uber Lycan

CHAPTER 66: The Uber Lycan

Several full moons later...

The air in Berlin in the year 2000 was thick with dust and tension. In front of a building under construction, the red and blue lights of patrol cars bathed the unfinished facade. Dozens of police officers had surrounded the site, but none had dared to enter. High above, behind the unfinished windows, the silhouette of George Oliva—one of Europe's most feared drug lords—moved like a restless shadow.

Television cameras and reporters crowded behind the police cordon.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are here live from downtown Berlin," announced one reporter, bundled in a jacket damp from the drizzle. "The building is completely surrounded, but the police have not yet managed to enter. George Oliva, the man who controls a large part of the drug trade in Germany, is barricaded inside with a group of men armed to the teeth."

Another journalist added in a grave tone:
"The situation is extremely delicate. According to official sources, the government has requested external help to resolve this crisis."

A little further back, under a makeshift military tent, several high-ranking police officials and Berlin politicians were talking in low voices. The atmosphere was charged with nerves, until attention focused on a woman with an elegant bearing and a penetrating gaze: Enid Drakewood.

A police commissioner, holding his cap in his hands, stepped forward.
"Excuse me, Miss Drakewood..." he said uncertainly. "The government has hired Enid Corp. to lead this operation. But... why send just one man against George Oliva? We all know that criminal is surrounded by armed men."

Enid let out a short laugh, as if the question seemed naive to her.
"Because it's already done, Commissioner."

Silence fell over the tent. The politicians looked at each other, confused. The commissioner insisted:
"How can you be so sure? We haven't even seen any movement inside the building."

Enid crossed her arms, her expression turning more serious and her tone acquiring a cold edge.
"Because all of you don't know who I've sent."

The tension in the tent increased. No one dared to say the name, but deep down, they all knew the answer.

The murmuring inside the tent grew more intense, until one of the politicians gently tapped the table to get a word in.
"Mrs. Drakewood," he asked skeptically, "do you really trust that a single man can do what the entire police force has failed to achieve?"

Enid adjusted her coat with a calm that contrasted with the general tension.
"I don't trust," she replied with a slight smile. "I am absolutely certain."

The commissioner frowned.
"Explain."

Enid took a step forward, letting her gaze sweep over each person present before answering:
"That man is not a common soldier, not even an agent trained in academies. He is someone who has walked the edge of death more times than any of you can imagine. He is my best resource, my ultimate card."

"His name?" asked another officer, his voice trembling.

Enid leaned forward, with the tone of someone revealing a secret everyone is afraid to hear.
"Phoenix Rogers. The best agent in Europe."

A tomb-like silence took hold of the tent. Outside, the drizzle continued to beat against the canvas roof like a muffled drum, while inside everyone understood that, one way or another, this night was about to be marked in history.

The interior of the building under construction was dark, barely lit by a few hanging light bulbs that flickered. The echo of Phoenix's footsteps reverberated as he climbed the concrete stairs, calmly adjusting his black tie.

"Well, Rogers..." he murmured to himself, with a spark of sarcasm in his voice. "Another quiet night in Berlin."

As he reached the landing, four armed men were waiting for him. As soon as they saw him, they raised their rifles. Phoenix raised his hands, as if he actually intended to surrender.
"Gentlemen, please... can't we talk like gentlemen?" he quipped, tilting his head. "Or at least wait until I finish fixing my tie."

The only response was lead. Bullets whistled and Phoenix rolled to take cover behind a table lying on the floor.
"One, two, three... four idiots. Perfect," he counted under his breath while drawing his Matilda, a weapon that gleamed in the dim light.

With surgical precision, he fired twice. Two men fell without even finishing their screams. Phoenix emerged from cover and, dodging bullets with fluid movements, reached the third with a brutal punch to the jaw that knocked him unconscious. He grabbed the fourth by the neck and delivered a sharp headbutt that dropped him, trembling in shock.

Phoenix wiped his hands deliberately, clicking his tongue.
"And to think they sold this to me as a challenge."

The sound of gunfire interrupted him. Four dry impacts hit him in the back. Phoenix staggered, cursed furiously, and turned to find the culprit. One of the thugs, still alive, was trembling as he held the smoking gun.
"Bad idea..." growled Phoenix.

With a single blow, he smashed the man's skull against the wall. Blood mixed with the concrete dust. Phoenix, panting, gritted his teeth as the pain shot through him like liquid fire.
"Shit..." he spat, putting a hand to the wound.

Instinct made him activate his regeneration, but this time the wounds weren't closing. On the contrary, the bullets burned under his skin, as if burning him from the inside.
"Silver..." he murmured with contained rage. "Son of a bitch..."

The pain intensified. Every attempt by his body to heal only caused the flesh to consume itself further. Phoenix understood quickly: those bullets wouldn't let him recover.

His breathing became thick, heavy. His eyes shone with an unnatural gleam.
"I guess... they leave me no alternative."