SICARII

The squad quickly left the room, moving with haste but caution, weapons at the ready. Rachel broke the silence first. "So, what's your name?" she asked, glancing at the young man.

"Ron," he said, his voice steady despite his disheveled appearance. "And you all need to be careful. Those guys aren't far—they're probably out gathering supplies or rations nearby. Also…" he paused, his tone growing more urgent, "I need my weapon."

"Weapon?" Taizen raised a brow. "Are you a Sicarii?"

Ron chuckled weakly, shaking his head. "I wish. No, but I've been military-trained in Xena. We may not have the blessings of inner powers like the Sicarii, but we've got tools that enhance what we do have." His expression darkened. "I managed to take out one of those bastards when they tried to capture me, but there were just too many. I think I've got some broken ribs from the fight, though."

Taizen frowned. "Why'd they take you in the first place?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Ron shot back. "I'm the son of a billionaire who makes weapons. They want cash, weapons, and leverage. My guess? They're demanding a fortune in exchange for me. But let me tell you something—my dad would rather let them kill me than hand over anything valuable. He's not one for negotiations." He exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing. "What surprises me is that he hired Sicarii to rescue me."

"What organization are you from?" Ron asked, his eyes scanning each of them.

"We're with the Beast Organization," Rachel answered. "But these two here…" she nodded toward Taizen and Mionara, "are with the Agency."

Ron's expression changed instantly. "Uh oh," he muttered. "TAK's going to love that."

Taizen stiffened. "Why would they love that? What are you talking about?"

Ron smirked grimly. "TAK. It stands for 'The Agent Killers.' They're literally named after killing people like you. You must've really pissed them off at some point."

Rachel's brow furrowed. "I've never heard of them before. Have you?"

Both Taizen and Mionara shook their heads, equally baffled.

Ron crossed his arms, wincing slightly at the pain in his ribs. "They're from Labre, actually. Always talking about it when they think no one's listening. Isn't it ironic? A group devoted to killing agents is based in the same city the Agency operates out of."

"They must be nobodies if we've never heard of them," Taizen said coldly, his grip tightening on his blade. "And if that's the case, I'm going to make sure they stay nobodies."

Ron nodded approvingly. "That's the spirit."

Before more could be said, a sound echoed from the hall beyond. Footsteps. A voice, singing a jaunty, off-key tune, grew louder with every step. The group froze, their eyes locking on each other.

Rachel hissed, "Hide. Quickly."

The four of them scattered, finding refuge behind desks and tables scattered across the room. Their breaths were shallow, their movements silent as they watched the door slowly creak open.

A man entered, his voice cutting off as he looked around. He was of average height, but his muscular frame made him imposing. Cargo trousers hung low on his hips, a gun in a holster on one side, and a sheathed dagger on the other. His torso was bare, revealing a chaotic tapestry of tattoos scrawled across his chest and arms—words, symbols, and faces all mingling in a chaotic array. But the most vivid marking was the massive word scrawled across his back: TAK.

The man's steps were slow and deliberate as he scanned the room. He moved toward the small room Ron had been held in, his gaze hardening when he saw the empty chair. His lips parted, a shout brewing in his throat—

Rachel moved like lightning. Emerging from the shadows, she clamped a hand over his mouth and pressed a blade to his neck before he could utter a sound. "Mionara, disarm him. Now."

Mionara stepped forward, yanking the gun from the man's holster and the dagger from his belt. The captive's eyes blazed with fury, but he remained silent, his chest rising and falling rapidly as Rachel kept her blade steady.

"Move," Rachel ordered, shoving him toward the back room.

The man growled low in his throat but didn't resist as they sat him in the chair and bound him tightly with rope. Rachel stood over him, her eyes cold and calculating.

Taizen and Mionara exchanged a glance, tension simmering between them. This was no ordinary operation, and both could feel it. TAK. The Agent Killers. The name lingered in the air like a curse.

Rachel crossed her arms, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "So, what's your purpose? Why are you doing this?"

The TAK member sat in the chair, his eyes cold and calculating as they flicked to each of them. He took a slow, deliberate breath, as if considering his answer—or buying time.

Before he could speak, Mionara's sword flashed. In a single fluid motion, he sliced the man's throat. Blood sprayed across the room as the TAK member gasped, then slumped forward.

"What the hell are you doing?" Rachel yelled, grabbing Mionara by the collar and shoving him back. "We needed him for intel!"

Mionara shrugged, his face impassive. "The mission is to rescue the personnel and get out. All this extra chit-chat is wasting time." His tone was flat, almost detached.

Taizen stepped forward, placing a hand on Rachel's shoulder. "Let's calm down, Rachel. He's not wrong."

Rachel shot him a glare. "No, you calm down. Both of you are inexperienced. You always get intel when you can, no matter what. I'm in charge here, and I didn't order that." She released Mionara, shaking her head in frustration. "But fine. What's done is done. Let's just get out of here before more of them show up."

The group began to leave the room, their steps cautious. Rachel opened the door, her blade drawn. Just as they stepped into the hallway, another door at the far end creaked open.

Three figures emerged, silhouetted against the faint light. Both sides froze, staring at each other in stunned silence, as though seeing ghosts.

Ron's voice cut through the tension, low and urgent. "That's them."

Taizen reacted instantly. With a burst of superhuman speed, he lunged forward, his katana slashing in a silver arc. The three TAK members scattered, dodging his strike and disappearing into the hallway.

Rachel spun around, pointing at Ron. "Stay here and don't move!" she barked before rushing out to assist Taizen. Mionara was already at her side, his swords drawn, the gleam of battle in his eyes.

Rachel's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Taizen, wait! You're rushing in without assessing the enemy properly!"

But Taizen didn't even flinch. His focus locked on one of the TAK members, he darted forward, katana glinting in the dim light. The TAK member, clad in a black vest that revealed tattooed arms writhing with serpentine designs, raised a pistol and fired.

The shots cracked through the corridor, but Taizen was already weaving. His body blurred as he dodged the bullets, closing the distance with lethal intent. The TAK member gritted his teeth, his other hand drawing a short, curved blade. He slashed at Taizen in a wide arc while continuing to fire erratically. Taizen deflected the blade with his katana, sparks flying as steel clashed with steel, his movements fluid and relentless.

Meanwhile, another TAK member—a broad-shouldered man in a sleeveless shirt, his chest and arms covered in tattoos of daggers and flames—raised his pistol, aiming it at Taizen. Before he could fire, Rachel appeared like a bolt of lightning. She kicked the gun cleanly out of his hand, the weapon skidding across the floor. The man snarled and swung a powerful fist at her, but Rachel ducked low, driving her blade toward his ribs. He twisted away just in time, drawing a knife from his belt as the two squared off.

The third TAK member, slimmer but no less imposing in a fitted T-shirt that barely contained the inked symbols stretching across his chest, circled around. He didn't engage immediately, watching the fight unfold with a predator's patience.

At the far end of the hallway, Mionara stood, his swords lowered but ready. His dark eyes flicked between two TAK members approaching from a side passage. Both were similarly tattooed and armed, their faces set in grim determination. One was taller and wiry, gripping a pair of daggers with a loose, practiced stance. The other was shorter but stocky, carrying a small axe in one hand and a short-barreled shotgun in the other.

Mionara's expression remained cold, his posture steady as he sized them up. He shifted slightly on the balls of his feet, blades glinting faintly in the dim light. His breath was measured, his focus razor-sharp. It was as if he were waiting for the perfect moment to strike—or for his opponents to make the first mistake.