Minutes earlier, in the desolate heart of South LA's abandoned factory district, the air hung heavy with the stench of rust and decay. The crumbling walls of the old industrial complex loomed like silent sentinels, their cracked concrete and shattered windows casting jagged shadows under the pale dawn light. Inside, Jason sliced through the coarse ropes binding Avril's wrists with a razor-sharp dagger, the blade glinting briefly before he sheathed it. "Move it, superstar," He growled, his voice low and impatient. "Time to find you a new hideout."

Avril, her face gaunt and pale, rubbed her raw, reddened wrists, the skin chafed from hours of restraint. She gripped the armrest of the rickety wooden chair, her body trembling as she tried to stand. A faint whimper escaped her lips, her legs wobbling like a newborn fawn, barely able to support her weight. The relentless hunger gnawing at her insides didn't help—she'd been starving herself for weeks to maintain her Hollywood figure, and since Jason had snatched her, not a single bite or sip had passed her lips. Her petite frame, already frail, was now on the brink of collapse, every muscle screaming in protest.

"Fuck…" She groaned under her breath, her vision swimming as she fought to stay upright.

Two shaky steps forward, and her knees buckled. A sharp cry tore from her throat as she pitched forward, the cold concrete floor rushing up to meet her. Jason's hand shot out, catching her by the arm with a grip like iron, steadying her before she hit the ground. His eyes narrowed, irritation flashing across his rugged features. "Fucking useless," He snapped. "Can't even walk a straight line."

You try being tied to a chair for a day and a night, you piece of shit, Avril thought, her blood boiling. But fear kept her lips sealed tight. Jason's temper was a live wire, and she wasn't about to spark it. Seeing his scowl deepen, she forced herself to move faster, dragging her numb, tingling legs across the gritty floor. The effort only made her stumble harder, her movements clumsy and erratic, like a drunk staggering through an alley.

Jason's patience snapped like a brittle twig. With a grunt of frustration, he scooped her up, hoisting her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Her body jolted against his broad frame, the sudden motion sending a fresh wave of dizziness through her skull. He strode toward the exit, his boots thudding against the concrete, each step echoing in the cavernous factory like a war drum.

"Idol! What's wrong with her?" Harley's voice cut through the gloom, shrill with concern as she jogged over, her blonde hair bouncing in a messy ponytail. Her wide eyes darted between Avril's limp form and Jason's grim expression.

Jason snorted, his tone dripping with disdain. "What's wrong? She's been starving herself all fucking day and can't walk for shit. You're so busy making her sing your damn songs all night, you forgot to give her a crumb or a drop of water."

Harley's face flushed, her lips parting in a sheepish grimace. She stuck out her tongue, a childish gesture that did little to hide her guilt. "Oops," She muttered, then dashed to the car parked nearby, rummaging through the glovebox. She returned with two plastic-wrapped packets of cheap white bread and a bottle of mineral water, the label peeling at the edges. "Here, eat this," She said, thrusting the items toward Avril, her hands clasped together in an apologetic plea. "I forgot last night, okay? Why didn't you say something?"

Avril's eyes stung with unshed tears. Blame me? Are you fucking kidding? She thought, her gaze flicking to Harley's fierce expression and Jason's towering presence. These people were monsters, their faces hard and unyielding, like predators sizing up prey. She didn't dare open her mouth to protest, not when a wrong word could mean a fist or worse. Swallowing hard, she took the bread with trembling hands, her fingers fumbling as she tore open the plastic. The dry, stale slices hit her tongue like cardboard, but she devoured them with desperate ferocity, crumbs spilling down her chin. It was the kind of cheap shit she'd never touch in her old life, but now? It was fucking ambrosia, sweeter than any artisanal loaf she'd ever tasted at a Beverly Hills café.

Harley handed her the water bottle, her expression softening. "Slow down, girl. Drink first."

Avril gulped the water, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. She chewed harder, each bite a battle against her body's weakness, the bread and water slowly coaxing a flicker of strength back into her limbs. When she finished, her stomach still growled, but she could stand without collapsing—a small victory.

Jason jerked his thumb toward the car's trunk, his eyes cold and expectant. Avril nodded, her movements robotic as she climbed into the cramped space, curling up on the rough carpet. The ease with which she complied, the practiced way she folded herself into the trunk, was heartbreaking—a routine born of survival. She was too weak to run, too broken to fight, but Jason wasn't taking chances. He grabbed a coil of nylon rope, binding her wrists and ankles with practiced efficiency, the coarse fibers biting into her skin. A dirty rag followed, stuffed into her mouth, muffling any chance of a scream. Pity? Compassion? Not in Jason's vocabulary.

As he slammed the trunk shut, a commotion erupted near the car. Harley and Christine stood by the passenger door, their voices rising in a heated spat. Harley's face was a mask of fury, her hands planted on her hips. "A fucking sidepiece like you thinks she gets shotgun?" She said.

Christine's eyes flashed, her posture defiant. "I'm his childhood friend, you dumb bitch. We go way back. What's your excuse—knowing him for, what, a week?"

Harley's lip curled, her voice venomous. "Three years ago, you ditched him like trash. You lost your claim the second you walked away."

Christine spread her hands, smirking. "And now I'm back. Deal with it."

Harley stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "Back? Then get in fucking line—behind me."

The argument spiraled, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of insults and posturing, neither willing to yield the coveted front seat.

"Fucking childish," Jason muttered under his breath, sliding into the driver's seat with a scowl. He didn't have time for this petty bullshit.

Ding! A sharp chime cut through his thoughts, a translucent system interface flickering to life in his vision. [Villainous ally 'David' has killed a taxi driver. +100 Villain Points. Current Progress: 2770/10000]

Jason's brow furrowed, confusion gnawing at him. Why the hell would David kill a cabbie? Was he stuck in some shady black-market taxi? Did the driver try to rob him? Before he could process it, the system went haywire, notifications flooding the screen like a virus.

Ding! [Accomplice 'David Nord' has killed 24 SWAT officers. +2400 Villain Points. Current Progress: 5170/10000]

"What the fuck?" Jason's voice was a low growl, his mind reeling. David was taking on cops now?

Ding! [Accomplice 'David Nord' has killed 16 FBI agents. +1600 Villain Points. Current Progress: 6770/10000]

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jason muttered, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. Was the system glitching out?

Ding! [Accomplice 'David Nord' has killed 13 professional soldiers. +1300 Villain Points. Current Progress: 8070/10000]

Jason's brain short-circuited. What the hell was David doing? Solo-raiding a police station? A fucking military base? The numbers didn't lie—his right-hand man was racking up bodies like a one-man apocalypse. Jason's mind raced, trying to piece together a scenario. The only logical explanation, assuming the system wasn't fucked, was that David had gone full Rambo with heavy weapons—maybe an RPG, maybe a goddamn bomb—and stormed an LAPD stronghold, drawing the feds and the army into the fray.

He fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking with a mix of disbelief and adrenaline, and dialed David's number. "Hey, boss!" David's voice was infuriatingly calm, like he'd just finished a morning jog instead of a massacre.

"David, what the fuck is going on?" Jason demanded, his voice tight. "What's with the body count?"

"Oh, just a little situation," David replied, casual as ever. "I was in a taxi heading to the factory when I spotted a SWAT team rolling up in armored vans, maybe a few klicks out. They were coming for you, boss."

Jason's blood ran cold. SWAT? Armored vans? The cops had found his hideout already? Since when were the LAPD this fucking efficient? "Get out of there, now," He barked. "Don't let them grab you. I'll contact you once I'm somewhere safe."

"No need to run, boss," David said, his tone almost amused. Jason could hear the smirk in his voice. "I took care of the whole team."

Jason blinked, his brain struggling to process. "What?"

David glanced at the pale, hollow-eyed Major Rhodes, sprawled nearby in the wreckage. "Yeah, I wiped them out. All of 'em."

"You? Alone?" Jason's voice cracked, his mind refusing to accept it.

"Yup."

"No RPGs? No heavy weapons?"

David chuckled. "Unless you can smuggle an RPG on a commercial flight."

Jason was speechless, his jaw hanging open. He pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. One guy. One fucking guy had taken out a fully armed, fifty-man elite squad? It was insane, impossible, the kind of shit you'd only see in a hollywood movies. His knowledge couldn't wrap around it, but then he remembered David's Level 10 Firearms Mastery skill. Fucking hell, he thought. Level 10 is a goddamn nightmare.

"If it's all clear, hold tight," Jason said, forcing his voice to stay steady. "I'm heading your way."

"Cool. Oh, and I've got a live one here—a major, by his rank. Might squeeze something useful out of him."

Jason hung up, his pulse hammering in his ears. He started the car, the engine's roar a faint echo of the chaos in his mind. He needed to see this shitshow for himself. Glancing over, he saw Harley and Christine still bickering by the passenger door, their voices shrill and relentless. Fucking hell, they're still at it?

He rolled down the window, his patience gone. "Enough! Both of you, get your asses in the back, now!" He roared, his voice cutting through their argument like a blade.

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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.

pat reon.com/GreenBlue17

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