# Hunter He stands doubled over, regaining his breath. The shock of what just happened isn't going away, but getting worse. Breathing, heavier. Face, bloody. Fists, clenched. He finds his way to the back door of the club. There is no door handle and no way to open it from the outside. **Knock knock** A security guard opens the door find a bleeding man with his head held over in pain with a rough suit as if he had been through hell. Instead of being on guard, the guard suddenly becomes concerned, "*Man, what happened to you, are you alright?*" A loud crack of jaw breaking and head hitting the door frame echoes through the alley. The man took the guard by surprised to make sure he has no obstacles in his path for what was coming next. There would be a time and place for the guilt to set in, the kind of guilt that would make you believe it was better to no longer exist, but this was most definitely not the time nor the place. That would come later. He stumbles through the back of the club and makes his way to the main hub. Music, pounding. Lights, blinding. Girls half dressed which was to imitate getting dressed up, the eyes of males following them everywhere. No one noticed him re-enter the club bloody as anything. The face of a Spartan, straight edge jaw, muscles tense, searching for his target. He finds a friend of his, one of his best, laughing and having a good time with her friends. He makes his way around so as to avoid her knowing she was one of the only ones who can stop him from what he was about to do. Target located, a voice in his head sounds off. The potential dead man was dressed up, sadly as probably one of the best in the club. Hints of extreme luxury and inheritance embraced his wrists and fingers, gleaming with gold. A few of his friends weren't so neatly dressed, but still enough so as to know they came here and belonged together. They continuously harassed every girl who happened to walk by them, whether taken or not. They didn't care, they owned the place. Or at least they acted the part. But he knows they didn't. Because he, knows the actual owner. He stood there for a while, starring his targets down like the lion that stalks its prey before pouncing the life out of it. One step, two step, three step, long strides of a man who knows how to handle himself. Something the kids might nowadays mistake for 'swagger'. Three steps to go and suddenly the fists re-clench, ready to fly. One step to go... Music pounding, lights blinding, he managed to time it well while he finds his target and waits for the next blackout between flashes. His target is suddenly on the ground with the most horrid looking deformed jaw one would have ever seen. Lights re-flash and suddenly the first victim's friends are confused. They couldn't find him for a second but finally see him on the ground. They look for the why. They look around to find a man with a neat mohawk, the most ripped up raggedy casual formal suit of which they recognised, and a zombie like face covered in blood, of which they also recognised. Suddenly they froze. They now understood why he pleaded with them to not start something they couldn't finish. The fire in his eyes made sure of that. Lights. Blackout. Flash again. He's gone. The amount of fear that goes through his targets caused a certain stink about them, through their overpowering colognes. It was adrenaline. They needed to find him before he found them again. Another one of the three targets down. The one left froze again and had not a clue what was coming. But he was quick. He lets go of his drink and makes it 3 steps away before his drink hits the club floor. He makes his way through the sea of dancing homo sapiens who haven't a clue as to what was happening in the club, right next to them, one in critical condition, another with a broken neck. He manages to make it out of the club. The friend who was avoided at first, finally see's the zombie like figure making his way out of the club who manages to make it out before the last target. She finally recognised who he was. Her friend. One of her closest. Her protective sidekicks and she is off the table where she has been talking with her friends and makes her way to the entrance of the club. Fear and strength grips her, knowing what he can the like when he is being fuelled by rage. She saw the fire in his eyes, even from the distance across the club. She finds him outside, standing over the now limp and almost lifeless body of his third target. He bleeds. The target also bleeds but sputters, coughing incessantly. She pulls him to the side and locks eye contact. She tries thoughts of peace, mostly for herself and manages to let the words, "*You're okay...please be okay*" slip out. He now stands there shaking, the pulses of rage now slowing leaving his body. She knows something bad must have happened if he decided to let all this rage out on these three…people. His friend’s eyes are glazed. He knows he scared her with his display of violence, which was never witnessed by anyone else within the club. The combat was timed perfectly to the chaos of lights within the club. His breathing is now calm. The guards now aware that something has happened and begin investigating. The singular ear-piercing scream of the blonde bimbo who found the first two targets limp bodies on the ground confirmed this. The friend also noticed a recognisable emptiness in his eyes. He was starring off into the distance, with the face of the first guard he had to remove, imprinted onto his mind. And it would remain there for a life time, set in like concrete by guilt. --- #Writing/Short-Stories #Hunter