The air shimmered with a neon haze. The floor's phosphorus lights shaped long shadows that danced and twisted like phantoms. Ganjo’s combat suit clung to his sweat-slicked skin. He led the pack, his eyes burning with a focused intensity. Behind him, his crew fanned out. Each of them was a predator in the urban jungle, their weapons strapped to their backs like wings. They moved with a practiced grace, their footsteps muffled by the concrete floor. The floor was a hidden space within the hospital. A ghost floor. It was a labyrinth of unfinished rooms and abandoned construction materials. Thick scents of dust and decay covered the air.

  Ganjo's hand shot out, signaling a halt. They crouched in the shadows, their eyes scanning the corridor ahead. The door led to the sensory deprivation chamber. A steel slab disguised as part of the wall, loomed before them.

  With a silent nod, Ganjo motioned towards the door. Two of his crew, their faces masked by balaclavas, stepped forward. They worked in unison, their movements precise and efficient. The lock clicked, the door swung inward, revealing a darkened room beyond.

  Ganjo raised a fist, signaling a hold. They waited, their senses on high alert, listening for any sign of movement within. The silence was broken only by the wheezing of the ventilation system and the distant drip of water.

  With a sudden burst of movement, Ganjo lunged through the doorway, his crew close behind. The room was a cavern, its walls lined with sensory deprivation tanks, their surfaces gleaming like obsidian mirrors. Chlorine and a metal made Ganjo's nostrils twitch.

  A figure emerged from the shadows, a dark blur that moved with an uncanny speed. Ganjo's eyes widened in surprise as the figure launched itself at him, its fist connecting with his jaw in a thunderous crack.

  Ganjo stumbled backward, his vision momentarily blurred. He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs, and lunged back into the fray. The figure danced around him, its movements fluid and unpredictable. Ganjo countered with a wild swing of his arm, but the figure dodged it. The rest of Ganjo's crew joined the fight as other mysterious individuals appeared. Blades, hammers, and axes were drawn.

  Ganjo's attacker moved like a phantom, its strikes precise and deadly. Ganjo felt a sharp pain in his side as the figure's elbow connected with his ribs. He gritted his teeth, channeling the Aether, the neon blue light pulsing beneath his skin.

  With a roar, Ganjo unleashed a flurry of punches, each strike infused with superhuman strength. The figure parried and dodged, its movements still fluid, but Ganjo could sense a hint of strain, a flicker of vulnerability.

  Suddenly, the figure lunged, its hand shooting out like a viper. Ganjo reacted instinctively, his arm deflecting the attack. He grabbed the figure's wrist, twisting it sharply. The figure cried out in pain, its body contorting in an attempt to break free.

  Ganjo pressed his advantage, his other hand reaching out to grab the figure's throat. He squeezed, his grip tightening like a vise. The figure's eyes widened in panic, its struggles growing weaker.

  With a final surge of effort, Ganjo lifted the figure off the ground, slamming it against one of the sensory deprivation tanks. The tank shattered, its contents spilling across the floor in a wave of warm, salty water.

  The figure lay motionless, its body limp and lifeless. Ganjo released his grip, letting the body slide to the ground. He stood over it, his chest heaving, the neon blue light in his veins pulsing bright.

  The rest of the fight continued in the distance, but Ganjo was distracted by the body that spilled out of the shattered tank. It was that of a young boy. He could be no older than ten.

  Ganjo’s heart was a drumbeat against his ribs, his breath catching in his throat. He stumbled towards the next tank. Another child, her eyes wide and pleading, stared up at him. Her body was suspended in the murky fluid. He moved to the next, and the next, each tank revealing a tableau of horror - a boy with a look of terror printed on his face, a toddler with tubes snaking from her arms, a teenage boy with a shaved head and a vacant expression. Each face reflected the depths of Ganjo's despair.

  The last tank, the last chamber of horrors, held a boy with tousled brown hair. His eyes mirrored Ganjo's own. He could have been his younger self. The sight of the child, so innocent, so vulnerable, was the final straw. Ganjo's carefully constructed walls of detachment crumbled, his emotions surging like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him.

  Anger, hot and burning, coursed through his veins. Anger at the perpetrators of this atrocity. Anger at his own helplessness. His mind, filled with fragmented memories, replayed years spent in the grimy underbelly of society, years that had shown him the darkest corners of the human soul. But this, this experimentation on children, on innocent lives, was a new low, a depravity that his psyche could no longer absorb.

  A sharp sting on Ganjo's back interrupted his swirling thoughts. Another attacker, a shadowy figure with a gleaming blade, had managed to land a blow. But Ganjo barely felt it. The physical pain was nothing compared to the inferno of rage that consumed him. His eyes blazed red with an otherworldly intensity. The neon blue light beneath his skin pulsed brighter, a beacon of raw power. With a guttural roar, Ganjo turned on his attacker. His movements were a controlled fury. The attacker landed twisted and mangled.

  Ganjo saw the rest of his team, still locked in a fierce struggle with the facility's guards. The sight fueled his rage, pushing him further, deeper into the abyss. It was a savage scream, a release of pent-up frustration and despair.

  And then, something snapped.

  A rush of energy, a raw, untamed power, erupted from within Ganjo. It was like a dam breaking, a blast of energy unleashed. His body became a pure conduit of the aether, his muscles coiling and uncoiling with superhuman speed. He moved so fast, he was a blur, a phantom. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. Another attacker, his eyes wide with surprise, never even saw it coming.

  Ganjo materialized out of thin air, striking with deadly precision before vanishing once again. Each attack was swift and decisive, leaving his opponents limbless, beheaded, ripped, or torn. He was a wraith, appearing and disappearing at will, always one step ahead of his pursuers. His fists and feet were like weapons forged in the fire, each strike carrying the force of a battering ram. The air crackled with the intensity of his power, the very floor seeming to tremble beneath his feet. His enemies fell like dominoes, their bodies crumpling under the onslaught of his relentless assault. In the blink of an eye, the room was cleared, the attackers scattered like leaves before a storm. Ganjo stood alone, covered in remains, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with the fire of victory.

  And then, as abruptly as it began, the power shut down. Ganjo stumbled, his legs suddenly heavy. He was drained. Clutching at his chest, he gasped for air.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  One of his teammates rushed to his side.

  "Ganjo, you alright?"

  Ganjo waved him away, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  "I'm... fine."

  His eyes darted to the shattered sensory deprivation tank, to the young boy's lifeless body lying amidst the wreckage.

  "The kids. We need to get them out of here."

  A woman's voice cut through the tense atmosphere, sharp and urgent.

  "Guys! Over here! It's important!"

  The team, drawn by the urgency in her tone, converged around her. She was crouched over one of the downed attackers, the scene a bloodied mess.

  "What is it, Maya?”

  She looked up, her expression grave.

  "I know this man.”

  One of the other teammates, a wiry man, let out a low whistle.

  "Funny how that happens. You think you know someone, then..."

  Maya cut him off.

  "He's a martial advocate with the Krautzberger firm. Why would he be moonlighting as security for some clandestine operation?"

  Ganjo, still catching his breath, straightened up.

  "Unless…he’s not.”

  Omar, Olt's grandfather, sat in his worn armchair. The shimmering light of the television casted shadows against his weathered face. The news anchor's voice boomed from the television’s speakers.

  "...after ending their relationship with Synoro thirty years ago, the Krautzberger Firm is proud to announce that they are returning to the city. Negotiations have begun to contract the organization as a law enforcement agency."

  The anchor continued.

  "Krautzberger is one of the five largest and most prestigious firms, being the oldest on the continent. It has been a beacon for justice, providing police and law services, and one of the best martial advocate development programs."

  Omar grunted, shifting in his seat. He'd seen enough of Krautzberger's justice to last a lifetime.

  The anchor droned on.

  "For now, they have been contracted to provide services to the city center, but the government hopes to soon extend the contract across many other city sectors."

  The television screen switched to a woman with sharp features and a steely gaze. The caption read: Olivia Nader.

  "I am proud to announce this historic—"

  Olt walked into the living room. Omar turned to Olt, interrupting the broadcast, his voice full with disbelief.

  "Olt, is that… Rebecca’s Olivia?"

  Olt, noticing the image on the screen, nodded slowly.

  "Yeah, that's her."

  Confused, Omar continued.

  "How could she do it? Knowing what they did to your father, how could she continue to work with them?"

  Olt sighed, running a hand through his hair.

  "I know. It’s a hot mess."

  Pausing, his eyes drifted towards the worn family photos on the mantelpiece.

  "I’ve known Rebecca for about 2 years and in that time, she’s never mentioned her sister. I wonder if Jeffrey knows anything about that, since he and Rebecca ran in the same circles.

  Omar nodded slowly, his skepticism evident in the deep lines around his eyes.

  "Jeffrey never talked much about work."

  The floorboards creaked beneath Olt’s feet as he shifted uneasily. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow on the worn furniture and faded photographs. Olt sighed, the sound heavy in the room.

  "Gramps, I think I might have found a job.”

  Suddenly, Jeffrey stepped into the living room. His face was full of tension. The energy became tense, the sudden shift evident. Olt and Omar exchanged a quick glance, a silent acknowledgment of the brewing storm.

  "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. What’s the job?” Jeffrey asked.

  "Ganjo might have me work for him-and my landlord also offered me something," Olt answered.

  Jeffrey's voice rose, his frustration boiling over.

  “What? You working for Ganjo? What kind of job is he offering you?"

  Olt paused, his eyes matching Jeffrey’s intimidating glance.

  “Uh, he didn’t say. But, you know there’s a lot-”

  Aggressively, Jeffrey interjected.

  “Ganjo deals with dangerous people. You working for him, might as well be asking the government to take you down.”

  There was irony in Jeffrey’s words, Olt thought.

  “With all due respect, Jeff, the government is already trying to take us down.”

  “Being laid off due to politics isn’t what I meant, Olt,” Jeffrey replied, disregarding Olt’s comment.

  Protection and care was Jeffrey’s priority. He made it evident throughout the years. This didn’t change, however, Olt’s contempt for his patronising approach. The more he aged, the less patience Olt had for the attitude.

  Olt’s fist squeezed, his knuckles turning white. Commanding and rash, the force of Olt’s voice startled Omar, causing him to stand up from his seat with concern.

  “Alonso Gijon is dead! He tried killing Rebecca!”

  The room fell silent. Running into the room, Cristina demanded an explanation for the commotion.

  “What the hell is going on in here?”

  Rubbing the right side of his lower back, Omar took a deep breath. He had stood up too fast.

  “Olt, calm down-what do you mean, dead?”

  Stepping slowly back from the shock, Jeffrey softly addressed Olt.

  “Olt, that can’t be. I’m sure I would have known about this.”

  “Well, I guess not. And by the way, either I work for Ganjo or I gangbang for my landlord. Either one is fucked, to be honest. My landlord is about to send the Dasa Vech king after Ganjo…”

  Christina winced from the bizarre information coming out Olt’s mouth.

  “Wait, wait, wait-what do you mean, gangbang?”

  Omar sat down again shaking his head.

  Frustration had overcome Jeffrey, his face scrunched up like a sponge.

  “Who in the hell is your landlord, and what does Ganjo have to do with this? What do you have to do with this? You were renting from a gangster?”

  The frenzy was disturbing Omar’s sense of balance. As he had aged, he had taken a passive approach to the affairs of the family. His son-in-law had proven himself worthy, especially after the tragic loss of his only son, Olt’s father. Chaos, however, was looming close. And he would not allow it to take a hold of his family.

  “Enough!”

  Shouting was a rare occurrence for Omar. Communicating in short syllables was his preferred method of speech.

  Olt, Christina, and Jeffrey stood shocked. Short but swift footsteps were heard from the kitchen, as Hannah made her way into the living room. Her jaw hung open from the disbelief she felt when Omar raised his voice.

  “Omar,” Hannah said. She then redirected her attention to Christina and Olt.

  “Arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

  Disregarding Hannah’s comment, Omar pointed his index finger at Olt.

  “Slow down, and take us back. What happened?”