Evil MC's NTR Harem-Chapter 622 - Trick

Bits of brain and fractured bone splattered across the floor.

The body collapsed, twitching as it hit the ground.

Before the others could process what had just happened, Ross pivoted, his eyes burning with cold fury.

He launched forward with terrifying speed, closing the distance between himself and a second guard.

"Hrrgh!" Ross grunted, driving his fist into the man's stomach with devastating force.

The impact echoed like a gunshot. His arm didn't stop at the stomach—it sank through, punching through muscle, bone, and organ like wet clay.

His fist burst out the man's back with a sickening squelch, a spray of blood arcing into the air.

The man screamed once before his body went limp, sagging over Ross's arm like a broken doll.

"Fuck!" someone shouted, panic surging through the room.

Then all hell broke loose.

Muzzle flashes lit the hall as gunfire erupted in every direction.

The sharp, deafening tat-tat-tat of automatic rifles echoed off the concrete walls.

Bullets tore through the air, ripping chunks out of walls and leaving sparks in their wake.

But Ross was already gone.

He dropped the limp body and dove into a roll, bullets trailing inches behind him.

As he came up, he grabbed a fallen rifle—spinning with the motion—and hurled it like a spear into a third guard's face.

Crack! The heavy weapon collided with the man's skull, snapping his neck and sending him sprawling.

Another guard took aim. Ross was already there.

He seized the barrel of the rifle, yanked it to the side, and drove his elbow into the man's throat.

The impact crushed the windpipe with a dry crunch.

As the man choked and stumbled backward, Ross ripped the rifle from his hands and smashed the stock into his skull, cracking it open like a melon.

Two remained.

They hesitated—just for a second—but that was all Ross needed.

He ducked low, almost gliding across the floor as he closed the gap.

One of the guards fired, but the rounds went wide. Ross slid beneath the barrel and came up inside the man's guard.

He grabbed the man by the mask and slammed his head into the concrete pillar with enough force to cave it in. The man dropped like a sack of meat.

The last one tried to run.

Big mistake.

Ross launched after him, grabbing him by the back of his vest. He spun him around and delivered a thunderous blow to the chest.

The man's ribs shattered, and he flew backward, crashing into the wall with a hollow boom before collapsing, wheezing and bloodied.

Silence fell.

Blood pooled across the floor. Bodies twitched—or didn't. Smoke and dust hung in the air, blending with the metallic scent of blood and gunpowder.

In the center of it all stood Ross Oakley.

His shirt was soaked with blood—none of it his own. His chest rose and fell steadily, his breath calm, collected. Not a trace of fear. Not a single scratch on him.

Across the room, Thomas stared in stunned silence.

Six guards.

Six trained men.

Slaughtered in under thirty seconds.

Ross turned slowly to face him, eyes gleaming with unspoken wrath.

"This," Ross said, his voice low, dangerous, "was just the introduction."

***

"…!"

Thomas's entire body tensed, a chill running down his spine as every hair stood on end.

His eyes were wide, fixed on the nightmare unfolding before him—Ross, drenched in blood but moving like a predator at play, tearing through his men like paper dolls.

Screams echoed, sharp and fleeting, before they were silenced by the sound of bones snapping, throats being crushed, and skulls splitting open.

It was a massacre. And Ross… he looked like he was enjoying every second of it.

Thomas had seen war. He had watched men die, had killed more than a few himself. But this?

This wasn't a firefight. This wasn't combat. This was one man playing god, and everyone else was just waiting to be snuffed out.

Fear gripped Thomas's chest like a vice. His breathing quickened, but his training kicked in.

He was a professional. Panic got you killed—he knew that better than most.

He didn't know how Ross was doing what he was doing. He didn't care if it was tech, drugs, or something else entirely. What mattered was survival.

He stepped back slowly, trying not to draw attention, his boots crunching softly on the shattered glass and blood-soaked floor.

Then, in one smooth motion, he reached for his sidearm. A matte-black pistol with a suppressor already attached. It had never failed him.

Pft. Pft. Pft.

Three shots. Center mass.

Thomas was a marksman. Each bullet hit Ross dead-on, punching into his chest with mechanical precision.

Ross looked down. Then up.

Nothing. Not a stagger. Not a wince. Not even a blink.

"What the f—" Thomas muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. This wasn't possible.

Ross tilted his head slightly, a smile slowly forming on his lips.

"It tickles," he said, his tone casual—playful even. "Thank you."

He licked the blood off his thumb like it was barbecue sauce.

Thomas's heart pounded. He'd fought monsters before—people with no conscience, no fear—but Ross was something else entirely. Something wrong.

Thomas gritted his teeth and recalibrated. Chest shots were out. Go for the head.

Pft.

A fourth shot cracked out. This one aimed directly at Ross's forehead.

The bullet struck with a sharp hiss. Thomas prepared for the explosion of blood, the collapse, the end. But instead…

Ross didn't fall. Didn't bleed. Didn't so much as blink.

A trail of smoke rose from his brow, and Ross reached up almost lazily.

He plucked the bullet from his skin like it was lint on a jacket. No damage. Not a single drop of blood.

Thomas's mouth went dry.

"Cute," Ross said, inspecting the still-hot slug between his fingers before discarding it with a flick.

Thomas stared, frozen in place, mind racing. There was no protocol for this.

No amount of training prepared you for a man who shrugged off bullets like mosquito bites.

He needed a new plan.

Or a miracle.