More than a dozen gang members gripped their M9 pistols and TEC-9 submachine guns, panic rising as they rushed toward the second-floor VIP booth to check on their boss's son. But just as they were about to act, one of them hesitated, turning toward the bar's entrance—drawn by a chill, an unnatural silence.
There she stood.
A figure clad in black, emerging from the shadows like a demon in human form. A suited specter, her mask veiling her identity, but not the icy glare in her eyes. Behind that expressionless V-shaped mask, her gaze shimmered with an abyssal light—cold, merciless.
Bella's eyes swept over the weapons in their hands. She bit her lower lip thoughtfully. From earlier testing, she was confident that normal firearms would barely touch her—her reflexes, speed, and durability were far beyond human limits.
Still... she wasn't eager to test that theory.
Not with bullets.
Not tonight.
Boom—
She launched forward. The floor cracked beneath her feet as if struck by a hammer. In that instant, she vanished from their line of sight.
Screams erupted.
To the stunned gangsters, it looked like a black-clad elf had descended from hell itself, dancing among them with deadly grace. But her waltz left only carnage in its wake.
She didn't fire a single shot.
She didn't need to.
Limbs flailed, weapons clattered to the floor, and bodies flew like rag dolls. Punches and kicks landed with bone-shattering force, each strike a masterstroke of speed and precision.
Blood sprayed across the air like crimson fireworks.
Within seconds, the chaos stopped.
Everyone in the bar—civilians, dancers, drunks, and dealers alike—stood frozen in awe. The sight before them looked ripped straight from a Hollywood masterpiece. A lone woman in a fitted black suit stood at the center of a ruined battlefield, surrounded by shattered glass, broken tables, and unconscious men moaning in agony.
It was beautiful.
It was brutal.
It was art.
Twenty hardened criminals now lay in heaps. Some were embedded in walls with trails of blood behind them. Others had been hurled into massive audio speakers or left tangled in wires sparking with electricity.
And still, the figure in black stood tall—unflinching.
Cool. Cold. Untouchable.
"Holy crap," someone whispered. "I need a picture. She's... so cool."
The fear that had once paralyzed the crowd had evaporated, replaced by stunned admiration. Men and women alike stared at the mysterious figure with awe-struck eyes. A goddess of war in a tailored suit.
Among the pools of blood and twisted limbs, one faint groan echoed.
Bella turned her head, her eyes still locked on the second floor.
Boom.
With another casual step, her body shot through the air, crossing the four-meter gap effortlessly. She landed silently in the booth above.
By now, the area was deserted.
Everyone had either fled or been knocked unconscious.
Only one figure remained.
Step. Step.
Her shoes echoed on the blood-slick floor as she advanced, her slow, deliberate pace like the steady ticking of a death clock. Every thud of her shoes was a countdown to the inevitable.
Blake lay crumpled among spilled drinks and crushed glass, his blood mingling with the shattered remains of his luxurious evening. His body twitched with pain. His ribs were shattered, his mouth smeared with blood, and his limbs refused to respond.
Yet his eyes—bloodshot and wild—were fixed on her.
Death.
She was death.
He could barely make out the V-shaped mask through his haze, but it terrified him more than anything else he had seen in his life.
"I... I have money," he rasped. "Let me go. My dad... he has money—lots of it... I can pay—please, don't kill me."
His voice cracked into sobs. Fear, greed, and desperation mixed together in a final plea for survival.
The people watching from below—those who hadn't fled—could only shake their heads. The once-proud Blake, heir of Fox Town's most notorious gang, now reduced to a trembling wreck, begging at the feet of the devil.
But Bella didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a card—a dark one, marked with a twisted little demon.
The Imp.
She held it between two fingers of her white glove.
With a flick of her wrist, the card sliced through the air like a throwing knife.
Whssst—THUCK!
The card buried itself into Blake's skull with a sickening crunch. His mouth froze mid-beg. His eyes, still full of disbelief, slowly lost their light.
It was over.
An hour ago, he was dreaming of ruling a criminal empire. Now, he was another body on the floor.
Bella didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. And still, she felt no release. The rage in her heart hadn't subsided—not yet.
She turned her eyes downward to the civilians below. Their expressions were a mix of fear, amazement, and devotion. But Bella said nothing. She simply jumped from the second floor, landing gracefully amidst the chaos and walking straight toward the exit.
The bar fell utterly silent.
She never spoke.
Not a word.
But the silence spoke volumes.
Her ruthlessness. Her elegance. The savage, beautiful precision of every movement.
To the misfits in that bar, Bella was a legend incarnate. A rebel queen. A dark savior.
Some men looked on in stunned arousal. Some women trembled with excitement. It felt like every heart in the room was pounding just a little harder.
Bella, however, felt none of it.
She was repulsed by the lot of them.
Tattoos, piercings, glittering club clothes—they pretended at rebellion, but she could smell the lies under their perfume. Her heightened senses picked up every synthetic drug, every old sweat stain, every unwashed lie behind a smile.
Disgusting.
She filtered it all out and kept walking.
Outside, the screams resumed.
"Oh my god! She's like... Knox! The goddess of the night!"
"I got it all on camera—I'm putting this on YouTube now."
"She's my goddess. My real goddess."
"Shut up, she's mine, I swear to god she's going to go viral!"
"Fake! You're not even worthy of her, you squiddy creep!"
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Fists flew. Elbows cracked. The bar exploded into chaos as people began fighting—for what, they weren't even sure. Maybe it was the bloodlust. Maybe the adrenaline. Or maybe just the overwhelming desire to belong to something powerful for once in their pathetic lives.
Even women joined in, clawing, slapping, screaming for the chance to claim her as their own.
But Bella didn't see it.
Didn't care.
She had already left.
By the time the fighting reached its peak, she had found a black Ducati Desmosedici RR parked near the alleyway.
She swung her leg over the bike, revved the engine, and in the blink of an eye, vanished into the night.
Her next target was clear.
The Barbarian Headquarters—the largest estate in Forks.
She wasn't finished.
This wasn't just about Blake.
It was about all of them.
If they were enemies—then none would survive.