Return of the God of war: Chaos awaits

Chapter 8

Kaleb’s body slipped down to the side into the elevator, limbs limp, face smeared with terror and disbelief. Draven nudged the corpse with a lazy kick, forcing it out as the elevator doors shut with an airtight snap.

“2,” blinked the monitor overhead in sterile red.

The descent, two floors, no more vibrated faintly through the metal box.

The doors slid open with a hiss.

Five well-equipped men stood ahead, spaced evenly before the corridor like lacquered statues fitted with guns and cigars. The hall was wide and polished, its tiles so clean they reflected shoes like black mirrors. A faint echo of disco music drifted down from Veyron’s party above, bass pounding, laughter swirling, glasses clinking. A world of champagne, ego, and lipstick stains sat just one level up, oblivious to the carnage rising beneath them.

“We’re supposed to be up there having fun,” one guard complained, puffing smoke lazily into the chilled air, “but nooo, we just have to stand guard and look intimidating.”

Another flicked a toothpick between his teeth, sighing like the universe conspired against his nightlife. “I had plans to have three ladies by my side tonight, but this… ruined it.”

“Peasants,” Draven muttered, stepping forward.

Their heads rotated at once, five pairs of cold eyes landing on him like gun barrels locking target.

“Hey, you!” one of them thundered, straightening his coat as if importance hung from the buttons.

Draven stopped exactly at speaking distance.

“Invitation?” the guard asked, bringing his cigar to his lips and sipping smoke with slow arrogance.

“I’m here for Veyron’s head,” Draven said, tone casual enough to suggest he was asking for room service.

Silence at first, then they erupted laughing.

“Haha!” laughter exploded, thick and loud. “Boss’ head,” one echoed with disbelief.

Draven stood unmoving, watching them laugh as if observing a species he found uninteresting.

“So you’re here for his head….oh boy,” one laughed, clapping his knee. “Haven’t we had enough drama tonight?”

One guard stepped forward, lifting his chin. “If you’re going for his head, catch yours first.”

“I need to grab a chair!” another announced dramatically, moving to the side. “Karan, make it slow, yeah? I want to enjoy this. Tonight has been boring enough.”

Karan was Veyron’s closest security dog, personal shadow, driver, threat filter, occasionally rumored executioner. Everyone knew he never left Veyron’s side. Tonight, he guarded the second floor because Veyron wanted a glittering party on the third, fourth, and final floor…the decken, rooftop level of champagne dreams and scandalous deals.

Draven smirked.

Karan stepped up, rolling his shoulders, cracking his knuckles, stretching his hands as if warming them for artistry. He aimed both palms at Draven’s skull, intending to slam them into it like twin hammers.

Just as his hands neared Draven’s head, he stopped. Or rather, his hands stopped, pressing against something unseen. His muscles tensed, veins bulging as he tried to push through.

“What the…..?” Karan muttered.

Boom.

Draven punched him.  The impact detonated like a grenade. To Draven it was a mere punch but the impact was so much that Karan's body shot backward, smashing through drywall as if it were paper, tearing past the hallway, past furniture, straight into a row of private suites.

“Holy….!” gasps erupted as walls burst open.

Ladies screamed, scrambling for sheets as Karan bulldozed through their rooms. The chaos was immediate, glasses shattered, tables flipped, perfume bottles spilled and rolled like grenades of expensive floral scents. None of the women were alone; a scattering of handsome strangers dove for blankets, trousers, dignity….whatever dignity could be salvaged when luxury sheets and exposed legs tangled in a mess of embarrassment.

Among the shrieks was Karen, a minister’s wife. She had been in the middle of a scorching affair with a younger man, one who still thought shirts were optional and romance meant volume, not discretion.

“Shit!!” she hissed, pushing him off like bad luggage.

She grabbed a sheet, wrapped it around herself, and stared wide-eyed at Karan’s motionless body on the floor. Her jaw quivered as she looked through the gaping hole in the wall, other rooms, other sex couples, all staring back through the shattered corridor of scandal.

“How? What…” she stuttered, voice cracking.

Karan didn’t move. His face was covered in blood.

Karen staggered up, grabbing her dress and bolting toward the bathroom. Her lover followed, barefoot and confused.

“Honey, wait…let’s continue!” he urged, attempting charm.

“Are you insane?!” she snapped, pulling her dress over her head with the speed of a trained spy. “Those people saw us!”

“Babe, I’m still you know….hard.” he whispered, gesturing down with tragic confidence.

She shoved him aside, grabbed her purse, and stormed toward the exit with her face buried in her sheet of shame.

“If this gets to Kole, I’m dead,” she muttered, walking fast, heels clacking.

Just as she reached the hall, she heard…

“Who are you?” one of the men with Draven demanded, staring at the massive hole Karan left behind. His widened eyes flickered between the wreckage and Draven like he couldn’t decide which was more absurd.

Karen froze, pressing herself against the wall like a guilty shadow. She peeked.

Her jaw dropped.

“Draven Khaelis?” she whispered, covering her mouth. “It can’t be. He’s supposed to be dead.”

The guards didn’t hear her, they were too busy recalibrating their understanding of the situation.

“To hell with this,” one said, drawing out his gun.

Draven raised a brow. “Finally.”

He fired three shots, three dull pops swallowed by something unseen. The bullets suspended mid-air, vibrating, then spun and zipped back, burying into the wall inches above their owners’ heads.

“Uh…boss?” one whispered.

Draven flicked two fingers. One guard flew sideways, smashing into the banquet table dripping with cocktails meant for Veyron’s elite guests above. Glass shattered in a crystalline orchestra, liquor splashing across the tiles like spilled celebration.

Another man charged, roaring, swinging a baton as if brute force could solve the unexplainable. Draven moved swiftly, appearing behind him, kicking him forward into the wall. His body slid down the polished surface like a sticker unable to cling.

The last two hesitated, then fired. Muzzle flashes ripped through the dim hallway, the flickering light casting fractured silhouettes. Draven walked through the bullets as if through rain.

He grabbed one man by the face and slammed him into the marble. The tile webbed with fractures, dust clouding around impact. The second tried to run, Draven hooked him by the collar, yanked him backward, and tossed him into the pile of unconscious bodies.

Silence pooled, broken only by the muffled pulse of disco music above.

Karen pressed trembling fingertips to her lips. “Dead… no. Alive. Alive and unstoppable.”

She backed toward the elevator, praying none of this touched her reputation.

Draven dusted his suit, straightened his cuffs, and glanced back at the elevator panel. The soft music of Veyron’s floor seemed to taunt him, cheers, applause, laughter, like a city oblivious to the storm climbing toward it.

“Next floor,” Draven murmured.

He stepped over unconscious bodies, leaving them like discarded props in a play they never understood.

He grabbed one of the men's body to the elevator and placed his hand on the monitor.

The monitor blinked.

“ACCESS GRANTED,” the voice intoned.

The elevator doors hissed open, waiting.