Chapter 97 Damian
Damian
Chaos detonated.
The first guard went down in a spray of blood as Oliver’s shot cracked across the server room. The second returned fire, bullets chewing into the racks, sparks and smoke spitting into the air. I ducked low, rolled behind a console, and fired two rounds through the guard’s chest. He dropped hard.
“Clear!” Oliver shouted.
But Luthor didn’t flinch. He stood calm in his tailored suit, hands clasped behind his back as though the storm belonged to him. His smirk deepened.
“You think you’ve won something here,” he said, his voice steady even over the alarms. “You’ve cut branches, Cross. But the roots?” He tapped a finger to his temple. “They run deeper than you can imagine.”
I surged forward, rifle raised, the fury in me burning hotter than the gunfire. “Roots can burn just as easy.”
Before I reached him, two more doors slammed open—reinforcements flooding the room. Black-clad men, half a dozen rifles snapping up. The air exploded with lead.
Oliver dove for cover, barking curses as he returned fire. Sparks rained from the servers, smoke curling into the ceiling.
“Damian, fall back!” Cyclone’s voice crackled over comms. “Too many signatures—more are coming!”
“No.” I fired into the cluster, one man dropping, another spinning as my round tore through his shoulder. “I’m not leaving without him.”
Gage’s rifle barked from the west window, his shots surgical, dropping two men before they could flank us. “Buy your window, Damian. Don’t waste it.”
I moved fast, cutting through the haze. One guard lunged at me, knife flashing—I slammed his wrist, twisted, drove the blade into his gut, and shoved him aside. Another came from the left; Oliver’s bullet snapped his head back before he reached me.
Then it was just me and Luthor.
He’d drawn a pistol, sleek and custom, but he held it loose, almost lazy, as if I were already beaten.
“You’re chasing a ghost,” he said, lifting the weapon. “I built this empire on men who thought they were stronger than me. You’ll fall the same way.”
“Difference is,” I growled, stalking closer, “I don’t fall.”
He fired.
The round tore across my ribs, hot and searing. Pain flared white, but I didn’t stop. I slammed into him, the pistol skittering across the floor as I drove him back into the steel racks. The servers groaned, sparks showering around us.
My forearm pressed across his throat, his smug mask finally cracking. “You want to build empires on broken lives?” I snarled, my face inches from his. “Then you answer to me.”
He clawed at my arm, gasping for air. “Kill me…and another takes my place.”
“Maybe,” I said, tightening my grip. “But not tonight.”
I slammed him to the floor, knee digging into his chest, rifle barrel pressed hard against his jaw.
This was it—the moment to pull the trigger, to end him right here, right now.
But something inside me shifted. Morgan’s voice. Her touch. The truth in her eyes when she whispered, You came back.
Killing him would be too easy. Too fast.
I wanted him caged. Exposed. Powerless.
“Cyclone,” I barked into comms, never taking my eyes off Luthor. “Tell me you’re recording this.”
“Live feed’s rolling,” Cyclone answered, his voice fierce. “Whole world’s about to see what kind of monster he really is.”
Luthor’s eyes widened. For the first time, he looked afraid.
And I knew—I had him.