When a Hitman Gets Haunted by a Ghost
Chapter 53: Tripping Point

Chapter 53: Tripping Point

Luke hastily drew his knife, his eyes widening as the gravity of the situation began to sink in.

Kant scanned the exits, each hole already blocked. He desperately tried to calculate an escape route.

They could knock down the guys by the exit, but with the gun pointed at Kant, he would be dead before he turned around.

"Didn’t you see the sign? This is a restricted territory." The man with the gun had a voice that was hard and gruff, almost scratchy to ears. He stepped closer, each step like a countdown. "And our boss doesn’t take well to unwelcome guests."

As the man lowered his gun and flicked his wrist, two figures advanced.

Kant reflexively dodged the first strike, but the second blow landed hard on his side, sending shockwaves through his body. He gritted his teeth, forcing back a grunt of pain as his ribs screamed in protest.

"But we’re no animals." The guy who punched him chuckled, a sly smirk on his lips and a fresh scar on his chin. "If you tell us who sent you, we might let you out alive."

Luke looked to Kant anxiously, and Kant firmly shook his head no, sweat trickling down his back. He would never betray the Bears, not after all the organization had done for them. It was Kant’s home. But the same couldn’t exactly be said about Luke.

A fist swung toward Kant’s jaw, and he ducked, slashing his combat knife up. His assailant staggered back, clutching his hand as blood seeped through his fingers.

Another figure lunged at him, and Kant countered with a swift, controlled strike. More blood. The wet, metallic scent joined the stale mix of oil and dust.

Pain sparked as someone kicked him from behind, but he gritted his teeth, quickly twisting around to face them, the blade drawing a wide defensive arc.

Kant’s eyes darted to where he last saw Luke, only to find him grappling with the scarred man, fear flashing across his features, his eyes darting everywhere.

"Focus!" Kant shouted, desperation clawing at his throat.

Luke clenched his jaw and dodged a swing that barely missed his head. The confidence he exuded earlier had melted in the face of a dead-end situation. He didn’t want to get hurt—nobody did—but here they were, in the thick of it.

The scarred man eventually landed the first blow on Luke, looking down on him with a look of wicked glee. "This your first time fighting? You’re clumsy."

Panting, Luke scrambled back over the gritty ground, his gaze fixed on the metal pole that had just hit him.

The scarred man’s eyes glinted with amusement, dragging the pole across the ground, creating an eerie, scraping echo in the empty warehouse. Each clang sounded like a death knell.

Kant’s muscles strained as he dodged attacks from three different directions, lungs burning with exertion. He tried to keep Luke in sight. Frustration clawed at him when he saw his friend’s fear-frozen stare. How many times did he have to tell Luke to focus on the attacker, not the weapon?

"Get up!" Kant shouted. "Eyes on the enemy!"

Luke hurriedly pushed himself up, getting into a defensive position.

"Look at you. You take orders so well," the scarred man sneered. He kept approaching with slow, leisurely steps, just to swing the pole suddenly.

It landed hard against Luke’s shoulder, and he staggered with a cry, clutching his arm.

The scarred man laughed with a hollow, heartless sound that rang through Kant’s ears.

For better or worse, Kant had shielded Luke so thoroughly that he’d only ever faced gawky, unskilled opponents wielding metal poles.

This was his first time being up against men of equal combat skill as the Bears, if not higher. And it wasn’t some casual sparring, this was a fight for blood.

"I have a feeling this one’s gonna be chatty," the scarred man murmured to his teammates, bringing the pole down into Luke’s ribs.

Kant’s heart dropped, his grip on his knife handle so tight it felt like part of his skin. But before he could react, it was too late.

A few rash moves, and his knife was knocked from his hand. Kant was forced to his knees, helpless to watch his greatest fear unfold.

Luke collapsed, gasping for breath as he hit the concrete, and the scarred man crouched down, inspecting him with cold curiosity.

"Still no talk?" he taunted, tapping Luke’s bruised cheek with the pole. "Would you talk if your friend told you to?"

He leaned closer, pressing the tip of the pole under Luke’s chin, forcing him to look at Kant. "Or should we make your friend talk first?"

Luke shook his head no, but the scarred man gave a nod to his teammates.

Kicks and punches rained down on Kant, who didn’t give them the satisfaction of sound effects. Luke winced, looking away.

Unimpressed by Kant’s lack of reaction, the scarred man raised a hand to make it stop. "Tough crowd, eh?"

The sound of knuckles hitting flesh finally ceased, and Luke glanced back up. A faint apology showed in his gaze before he received a kick on the side.

The scarred man tugged at Luke’s hair, forcing him to look up. "Seems you’ll have to do the talking for the both of you."

The sick laughter and thuds of metal striking bone echoed through the warehouse, committing to Kant’s memory whether he wanted it or not.

For years, the dead bodies Kant had seen wore blurred faces. He had moved past every painful memory quickly, never looking back. But it all fell flat in front of this memory of a lifeless face that had been supposed to smile for many years to come.

Yet, all Kant could do was writhe and kick anyone who was near.

Something inside him snapped that day. The last bits of hope for some normalcy smashed like glass. In its place rose cold fury, embedding itself so deep in Kant’s chest it left him numb.

The urge to kill had never been this intense, yet so out of reach.