Author's note:
Ahoy there, my magnificent readers! Or should I say, "Hello, fellow survivors of my latest writing spree!" How are we all feeling today? Me? I'm currently running on the fumes of approximately seven espressos and the sheer existential dread of wondering if any of this is actually good. Send help (and maybe a cookie).
But enough about my impending caffeine-induced meltdown! You're not here to listen to me ramble about my questionable life choices (unless you are? No judgment here). You're here for the story! And speaking of the story, I know, I KNOW, I've been hounding you fine folks for feedback like a seagull after a dropped french fry, BUT... it's important!
This is the revised version, remember? The one where I swore I'd fix all the plot holes and character inconsistencies of the original (keyword: swore). So, spill the beans! Did I succeed? Or did I just make it longer and weirder? Be honest, I can take it (probably).
Don't be shy! Tell me everything! Is it giving what it's supposed to give? Is the cringe level acceptable?
Is it too long? Too short? Too full of unnecessarily dramatic inner monologues? Lay it on me! Don't sugarcoat it - my blood sugar is already high enough from all the aforementioned espressos.
Seriously though, what are your thoughts? Don't spare my feelings! (Okay, maybe spare them a little).
Ian Flint
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Chapter 7
Mark pushed open the door, his entrance unnoticed amidst the men's leering conversation.
Good.
He spotted a loose brick half-buried in the dusty concrete near his feet, picked it up, and sent a surge of energy thrumming through his arm. The air crackled, ozone stinging his nostrils.
He sent the brick flying with a flick of his wrist.
"Ow! The
fuck
--" The brick connected with a sickening thud, and one of the men-- lean, a jagged scar marring his cheek-- clutched his shoulder, howling in surprise.
Their conversation abruptly ceased, their attention snapping towards Mark like a pack of startled wolves.
"Sorry, didn't see a doorbell," Mark quipped, his tone light but his stance alert as he moved further into the shadowy space.
One of the men, a hulking brute with a shaved head and a tattoo snaking up his neck, stepped forward. "Who the fuck are you, kid? You trying to be a hero?"
"Nah, but you should leave her alone."
"This ain't your problem," another man growled, his hand hovering near his waistband.
"Funny you should say that," Mark replied. "See, I already made it my problem. Dialed 911 on my way in. They should be here any minute."
A flicker of unease crossed their faces, but the one with the shaved head, just laughed. "You think cops scare us? We'll be long gone before those clowns even find their patrol cars."
Mark shrugged. "Suit yourselves. But maybe think about the lovely mugshots they'll be taking. You boys aren't exactly winning any beauty contests."
"Get the fuck out," Leather Jacket growled. "Last chance."
"Tempting," Mark said, tilting his head. "But I think I'll stick around for the show."
Bald head's patience snapped. "Screw this! Just fucking break his bones."
One of the men, a wiry guy with a jagged scar across his cheek, lunged at Mark, a switchblade glinting in his hand. Mark felt a surge of adrenaline, his body humming with power as he channeled magic into his limbs. He waited until the last possible second, then sidestepped the clumsy attack. He grabbed the man's collar, using his momentum to spin him around and slam him into the concrete wall.
The impact echoed through the warehouse, the man crumpling to the floor, groaning in pain.
"That's one," Mark said almost cheerfully.
Leather Jacket charged, a guttural roar vibrating the stale air. Mark stepped aside, barely registering the whoosh of the punch as he drove a knee into the man's gut. A satisfying
oof
followed. Before the man could recover, Mark's fist connected with his throat, a precise jab, dropping him to the floor. Gasping. Out.
"And that's two," Mark announced, his smirk broadening.
This is too easy.
"Tch," a voice spat from behind him. Mark turned to see the bald man, now holding a handgun, his expression murderous.
"Useless pieces of shits!" he snarled, glaring at his fallen men.
"No need to be so harsh on your friends. They just need a little... motivation."
"You think this is funny, kid?" He snarled, raising the gun to point it straight at Mark.
"A little bit. You see, the thing about guns is...they are a bit passé."
"Seriously, kid, what's wrong with you? When someone points a gun at you, you're supposed to piss yourself and beg."
"Guess my mom skipped that lesson."
His lips curled into a sneer. Suddenly, he pivoted, aiming the gun at the unconscious woman on the floor.
Mark felt a surge of adrenaline, his muscles tensing instinctively. He looked at the woman, her form curled, her mouth gagged, her wrists bound.
"Ooh, the hero type, huh?" He sneered, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "The one always gotta save the damsel?"
"Let's not do something rash."
"Awww, where'd all that spunk go?" he mocked, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Suddenly it is not so funny, is it?"
"We can all still walk away from this," Mark said, his voice firm but appeasing. "Just let her go, and we'll forget this ever happened."
He threw back his head and laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You think I'm stupid?"
"It's the smart move," Mark countered. "Think about it. The cops are on their way. Your men are down. This is your chance to cut your losses and run."
"Shut the fuck up!" He crouched down, bringing the gun closer to her head.
Mark's pulse quickened. He took a step forward, his jaw clenched.
He whipped the gun back towards Mark. "Don't. Fucking. Move."
"Just let her go," Mark repeated, his gaze unwavering. "It doesn't have to end like this."
"Can't do that, kid," he replied. "See, she's the one I'm supposed to deliver. She's valuable, and you've just messed up our plans."
"Valuable? What do you mean?"
"Yeah, she's our ticket," the man sneered. "Was supposed to be a fun evening, but you ruined it."
Mark stared at him, utterly bewildered.
What the hell is this guy talking about?
He couldn't make heads or tails of the man's words. All he knew was that this creep wasn't leaving without the woman, and that realization set off every alarm bell in his head.
The man continued to rant, a stream of curses and insults aimed at Mark, blaming him for ruining their plans.
Mark tuned him out, his focus narrowing, his mind racing. He reached deep within himself, tapping into the familiar wellspring of power. He pulled on it, cautiously at first, then with a surge of desperate resolve.
