Meanwhile, in the alleyway...
It's a good thing these idiots are underestimating me, Ethan thought, his eyes tracking the approaching syndicate members. If they pulled their firearms right now, I'd be in trouble, let alone try to help the others.
The troops swung their heavy metallic batons in lethal arcs toward his head. Ethan dropped flat to the ground, spinning on his hands and unleashing a sweeping low kick that shattered their shins. The men stumbled, their formation breaking instantly.
Ethan seized one mercenary's wrist, twisting it until the bone popped, and used the man's own baton to cave in the ribs of a second attacker. Dropping low again, he drove his boots into the knees of two more grunts. As they collapsed, Ethan stood up, grabbed two hands holding weapons, and forcefully slammed them into the faces of the remaining guards.
As other's attacked Ethan flipped back and as soon as he landed delivered a punch to the man's back of the head's sending him flying.
Within minutes, the alley fell dead silent, save for the agonizing groans of ten elite men writhing on the asphalt. Their own custom-made weapons had been used to systematically break their bones.
Ethan stood perfectly still among the wreckage, entirely unbothered. He looked up, his cold gaze locking onto Vic.
Vic was drenched in cold sweat, staring at Ethan in sheer horror. The remaining Shadow Syndicate reinforcements froze in their tracks, paralyzed, waiting for their captain's orders.
What do I do? Vic's mind raced in panic. This kid is a monster.
Suddenly, the sleek silhouette of a white Rolls-Royce Limousine purred to a halt at the edge of the alley.
The heavy rear door clicked open, and a man stepped out into the dim lamplight. He wore an immaculate, tailored black suit, his face completely concealed behind a featureless white mask.
"You individuals are remarkably incompetent," the man said, his voice dripping with smooth, venomous authority.
The surrounding mercenaries instantly recognized the tone.
"Boss?" Vic gasped.
Every single syndicate member immediately dropped to one knee, bowing their heads. Ethan remained standing, his posture perfectly relaxed.
So this is the head of the Shadow Syndicate, Ethan analyzed.
"Resorting to a street brawl when you are equipped with firearms... you bring embarrassment upon my name," the Boss said coldly.
"I am deeply sorry, Boss," Vic stammered, staring at the ground.
"You will receive your punishment in due time. But not tonight," the masked man replied. His piercing gaze slowly shifted, locking onto Ethan. "Do you have any idea who you are standing across from?"
Vic blinked, looking up. "No, Boss. Is he... someone of importance?"
"He is no ordinary soldier," the Boss murmured, stepping closer. "He is the phantom ghost of the battlefield. The one they call the Terminator Mercenary."
Vic's eyes widened to the size of saucers. The Terminator? The legendary operative who makes entire national militaries tremble? This kid?! No wonder he just destroyed my vanguard.
"Everyone, draw your weapons! Kill him!" Vic shrieked.
The remaining men scrambled toward the rifles they had discarded on the ground. One man dived for his assault rifle, but Ethan closed the distance like a flash of lightning. He drove a brutal stomp into the man's back of the head, smashing his face directly into the steel receiver of the gun. The man's nose and jaw shattered instantly.
Ethan scooped up the rifle in a fluid motion, flipped the selector switch to full-auto, and unleashed a devastating hail of gunfire.
The syndicate members scrambled for cover as the alley lit up with muzzle flashes. Bullets tore through the darkness, striking multiple targets in the torso, shoulders, and legs.
Through the chaos, Ethan glanced toward the car. The Boss was still standing completely still beside the limousine, entirely unphased by the gunfire.
Ethan turned his barrel toward the masked figure to end it—but in a fraction of a second, a gloved hand materialized from nowhere, grabbing Ethan squarely by the face.
With terrifying, unnatural velocity, the Boss slammed Ethan's head directly into the asphalt. The impact cracked the pavement. Before Ethan could recover, Boss's heavy shoe kicked the assault rifle out of his grip, sending it clattering into the dark.
He's fast, Ethan thought, his vision swimming. Incredibly fast.
The hand released his face. Ethan rolled away instantly, flipping back onto his feet, but as soon as he squared his shoulders, the sound of a silenced pistol echoed through the alley.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
The Boss fired with clinical, terrifying precision. Bullets shattered Ethan's right foot, his left calf, his both thighs, and his right shoulder. Ethan staggered, his muscles failing as his nervous system screamed in agony.
Two more suppressed shots cracked through the night. Ethan collapsed heavily onto the concrete. Before he could even attempt to drag his body forward, the Boss stood over him and fired two precise rounds directly through the palms of both of Ethan's hands.
Pinned to the ground, Ethan was completely immobilized, his body leaking crimson onto the cold street.
The Boss casually placed his polished leather shoe onto Ethan's bleeding palm, applying crushing pressure. He raised the pistol, pressing the cold steel barrel directly against Ethan's forehead.
Ethan didn't beg. He simply glared upward, his eyes locking onto the piercing, predatory red eyes staring back at him through the slits of the white mask.