But before Andrew could do anything more, Sammy's raw instincts kicked in. A surge of adrenaline, cold and fierce, coursed through her veins. She channeled every ounce of her fear and desperation into one precise movement. With a guttural grunt, she brought her knee up with all her might, aiming for the most vulnerable target. Her leg connected with Andrew's groin with a sickening thud.
A strangled, agonizing roar tore from Andrew's throat. His body stiffened, his grip on her loosening as he doubled over in pain, clutching himself. The sudden, agonizing shock to his system was enough. Before he could recover, before his drunken mind could even process what had happened, Sammy managed to crawl out of his menacing embrace. She scrambled backward, pushing off the floor with frantic energy, trying to put distance between them.
She was almost free, her legs ready to propel her away, when a large, meaty hand shot out. Andrew, still bent in pain but with surprising speed, grabbed the end of her shirt. The fabric stretched taut, pulling her back with a sudden jerk, threatening to drag her down once more.
Andrew, still doubled over but fueled by a drunken, vicious determination, snarled, "You have nowhere to go! The night is my domain, nobody will come to save you!" He pulled hard on her shirt, trying to drag her back into his grasp. "You think you are running away when you're just running towards me!"
But as he tightened his grip, a sharp, searing pain exploded in his hand. He recoiled, a gasp tearing from his throat, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. What he saw made his drunken terror solidify into sober fright.
"Not Again" Andrew was both confused and petrified hearing these low words
At that time he became fully sober and the first thing that he saw was
The girl in front of him had the look of a Hunter not a prey. Her face was utterly emotionless, a blank mask devoid of fear or panic. But her eyes—her eyes were blazing with a cold, terrifying intensity, like embers flickering to life in a dark void. In her hand, which he hadn't even registered she held, was a small knife.
Without a word, without a sound, she began to stab his hand, rapidly and repeatedly. Each strike was precise, driven by a raw, primal instinct he hadn't anticipated. The knife plunged in and out, tearing through flesh and muscle. Blood sprayed everywhere, a dark crimson mist against the dim hallway lights, as she pulled the knife out after each vicious strike, only to plunge it back in again. The pain was unbearable, a horrifying testament to the silent, deadly fury now unleashed.
Andrew's screams were no longer drunken slurs, but raw, piercing howls of agony. They tore through the quiet base, echoing down the concrete hallways like a siren, an urgent alarm that finally pierced through the complacency of the night. His cries were the last straw to wake up everyone in the nearby areas.
Within moments, the corridor began to fill. Guards streamed in from all directions, their weapons raised, followed by others, drawn by the horrific sound. Almost 30 people converged on the scene, a stunned, murmuring crowd. And then, the crowd parted, making way for a figure whose presence commanded absolute silence, Cobra. His face, usually unreadable, was etched with a rare blend of surprise and grim understanding as he took in the tableau before him.
What they saw sent a chill up everyone's spines.
In the center of the bloody tableau, kneeling on the cold floor amidst the splinters of brooms and the discarded Historia Plantarum, was Sammy. Her T-shirt, once a muted grey, was now mottled and dark with fresh blood, some of it her own, but most clearly not. In her hand, she still clutched the bloody knife, its blade gleaming wetly in the artificial light. Her posture was unnervingly still, almost serene.
But it was her eyes that truly horrified them. They were wide open, staring out at the assembled crowd, filled with a raw resentment and a chilling madness, yet her face remained as still as a calm lake. It was a terrifying dichotomy, the quiet fury in her gaze contrasting sharply with the placid expression, a mask of controlled chaos.
Beside her, sprawled unceremoniously on the floor, was an unconscious Andrew. He lay in a pool of his own blood, his heavy breathing shallow and ragged. His right arm, where Sammy's brutal attack had focused, was a mangled mess tied in a crude bloodied tourniquet. The blood flowed slowly from many wounds, deep gashes and punctures marring his flesh. It was clear, even at a glance, that his arm was torn and scarred for life, if he was lucky enough to keep it at all.
The sheer ferocity of the attack, delivered by the seemingly quiet, unassuming new girl, left the guards frozen, their weapons momentarily forgotten. Cobra's gaze, usually so calculating, was locked on his son, then on Sammy, a flicker of something akin to awe, and perhaps a new kind of fear, in his eyes. The easy power dynamic of the base had just been irrevocably shattered.
***
Sammy didn't quite know what had just happened. Her mind felt strangely detached, observing the scene as if from a distance. All she truly understood was that what she had done was for her self-defense, a desperate, primal act to survive. Yet, even in that detached state, a part of her knew instinctively that nobody would believe her. The image of her, kneeling in blood, knife in hand, would speak louder than any words.
After unleashing her raw anger, a different instinct had taken over, one buried deep from another life. The surge of adrenaline began to recede, leaving behind a cold, shaky calm. She had then, almost automatically, torn a strip from Andrew's own shirt and had fashioned a crudely made tourniquet, wrapping it tightly around his severely wounded arm. It was a desperate measure to stem the alarming flow of blood, a flicker of her old training, ensuring he wouldn't bleed to death. As much as she hated doing it, saving the man who had just tried to assault her, the act solidified her own conviction. She wasn't a killer, and she never wanted to become one.
Besides, Andrew must have learned his lesson. At least, he wouldn't try that again with her, or any other female survivor. Every time he tried, he would remember the scars he received tonight, a permanent, painful reminder of what happened when he tried it before. A grim satisfaction settled within her; she was happy that she had been able to save some other unfortunate girl who might have become Andrew's next victim.