CHAPTER 149: Insurrection-18

CHAPTER 149: Insurrection-18

The gates of Hellabrunn Zoo opened calmly for the afternoon event: carpet for guests, spotlights directed, white tents, and an organized murmur. Elena descended from her vehicle with the elegant weariness of someone used to smiling for the cameras; a firm step, measured greetings, her purse perfectly placed on her forearm. She was preparing for the speech: donations, photos, rehearsed words.

From a set of containers and underbrush, hidden behind potted banana plants and the shadow of a service fence, Marcus raised the binoculars to his eyes and focused on her with professional precision.

"There she is," he murmured, without taking his eye off. "Heading straight to backstage."

Fénix, breathing controlled, checked his weapon once more. The Matilda Mk II rested on his lap; the grip felt as familiar as his own palm. He opened the magazine, counted the bullets with his fingers: two silver-nitrate cartridges. Just enough. Enough, if everything went as planned.

"Only two left," he said without fuss, more to himself than to Marcus. "Two chances. I won't miss."

Marcus lowered the binoculars, glanced at him sideways, and clenched his jaw.

"Make them count," he replied. "I'll cover you from here."

With measured movements, Marcus assembled the rifle: barrel, breech, bolt. It was a sober piece, adapted for surgical mid-to-long-range shots; not meant for spectacle but to ensure a point of control. He placed the bipod on the edge of the container, rested the scope, and took a deep breath. Adjusted the distance on the reticle, calculated wind, angle, and the possible movement of the crowd.

"You have full coverage," Marcus said quietly. "If something goes wrong, you give me a head signal and mark the target. Don't expose yourself unnecessarily."

Fénix nodded once. He didn't smile; tension compressed his face.

"Good luck," murmured Marcus. "Come back alive."

"I will," replied Fénix, his voice dry. "Otherwise, don't ever speak for me again."

He held the Matilda in his hand like someone loading an oath, adjusted his hood, and gave Marcus one last look, who already had his finger near the trigger and his gaze fixed on the service entrance.

Fénix slipped through the backstage curtain with darkness clinging to his back. The stage lights cast long shadows; production staff ran with lists and tablets without noticing him. There, next to a screen and a rack of costumes, stood Elena: impeccable, adjusting a lapel microphone, her expression calm like someone awaiting the usual applause.

Fénix advanced without hesitation, the Matilda Mk II aimed unwaveringly at the center of her chest. The weapon's metal gleamed for a second under the lights.

"Elena," said Fénix, his voice gray and unadorned. "It's over. There won't be a speech."

Elena raised an eyebrow, not moving from adjusting her microphone.

"How direct," she replied with that closed smile that always accompanied her. "Have you come to talk about manners or to solve it with bullets?"

Fénix tightened his grip. With his free hand, he released the safety and let it fall with a dry click.

"Lower your voice and answer me," he whispered. "What the hell are you doing with Enid? Who gave you permission to use that serum?"

Elena didn't take a step back. She returned his gaze with cold calm.

"Do you really think this is solved with rhetorical questions and random shots?" she said. "You're an animal. And animals don't think, they just act."

Fénix looked at her as if she were the last test of his patience.

"You're not funny," he stated. "Tell me who backs you. Who supplies you the serum? Antigen? Enid? Or are you working for someone bigger?"

Elena laughed, a controlled sound that didn't even reach annoyance.

"You're always so dramatic. You know? I thought of something different when I formed this squad. I thought: if Enid has a guard dog, why can't I have my own?" She crossed her arms, enjoying the effect of her words. "I thought of security. Control. Someone who imposes. And here you have it."

Before Fénix could respond, a sharp, resounding blow knocked him to the ground: a precise kick that blew away his stability and sent him crashing into a pile of boxes. The impact tore a gasp from him; he spat blood and felt his body aching from top to bottom. He struggled to get up.

When he looked towards the door, he saw him standing there, like a human shadow: Bruno. Tall, broad, almost two meters; a presence impossible to ignore. He wore the uniform of the new squad—black, harsh lines—and a calm more frightening than violence itself.

Elena approached Bruno with feigned familiarity.

"I thought perhaps you and Bruno would get along," she said, in the voice of someone sharing a secret. "When I formed the squad, I wondered: Enid has her dog, why can't I have someone to protect me?" She looked at Fénix with contained contempt. "And look what we have. A jewel."

Bruno tilted his head and observed him in detail, like someone recognizing a rare object.

"I know you," were his first words, his tone dry. "You're not just anyone. You're… the Uber Lycan. They also call you 'the Hunter' out there. Some know you as 'Enid's Dog.' And others, less poetic, call you 'the Anomaly.'"

Fénix brought a hand to the side of his face, feeling the blow that still burned. The blood at the corner of his mouth warmed his skin.

"Don't call me that," Fénix growled, getting to his feet with effort. "I'm not a name for you to shout in a dressing room."

Bruno smiled without affection.

"Well, don't aim too high, friend," he said. "Because today you're not the hunter. Today you're the reason we earn our salary."

Elena, leaning against the screen, raised her chin and passed in front of Bruno like someone supervising a job well done.

"Welcome to the party," she murmured. "And by the way: if anyone wondered why I brought the squad into public life… now you see. Security, control, and, when needed, cleanup."