Chapter 253 The Nightcrawler’s Identity
Roughly five minutes after Liam’s departure, the chaos he left behind still lingered in the air. The street outside the Crimson Hand’s base was swarming with people—residents, passersby, even shopkeepers—all frozen in shock. Most stood with their mouths covered, horrified gasps escaping their lips as they gazed at the carnage before them.
Bodies littered the ground, limbs twisted unnaturally, blood trailing in thick streams across the cracked pavement. Bullet holes riddled some corpse. To the crowd, it looked like a war zone had erupted in the middle of the city.
A sleek, black car rolled up to the perimeter with a ghostly silence, its engine barely making a sound. It moved with the precision of a hearse arriving for its final pickup. The car stopped a few feet from the chaos, and then—click.
The rear door opened.
A single, polished black boot stepped out first, followed by the flowing black robes of Boss. He moved with the ease of someone completely unfazed by the massacre, an aura of silent menace radiating from him. One eye was hidden behind a dark leather eyepatch, while the other was like a bottomless pit—unfeeling, cold, and calculating.
Two men exited behind him, each one clad in black tactical wear and carrying rifles. They stood like shadows beside him, expressionless and rigid.
Boss began walking.
The crowd instinctively parted, giving him a wide berth. No one dared speak. No one dared breathe too loudly. His boots clicked against the asphalt with eerie calmness as he stepped past the corpses of his own men without a single glance.
He walked straight into the building through the gaping hole in the wall. The air inside was even heavier—choked with the scent of gunpowder, blood, and smoke. Cracks stretched along the walls, furniture lay in pieces, and shell casings gleamed in the dim light.
And there, near the far end of the room, was what remained of the thin man.
He was a mangled mess, lying in a pool of his own blood. Bones protruded from his arm at the wrong angle, and his breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps. The effects of the Vital had long since worn off. There was no werewolf now—only a broken man who had failed.