An open hem hoodie that revealed her perfectly toned belly, the tank top beneath just tight enough to make the local gravity whimper.
Her hair was tied into a high ponytail, bouncing with her step. And the earrings? A whole damn constellation decorating her ears.
She looked like a street racer's dream and a cyberpunk queen's worst nightmare.
"Because…"
She purred, dragging the word out like honey coated poison.
"we need a ride."
With one final dramatic flair, she raised the garage door fully revealing a dimly lit treasure trove of gleaming, dust covered sports cars. Rows of them. All shapes. All makes. All colors.
Hyper aggressive angles. Low suspensions. Bodies that whispered I break speed limits for breakfast. A whole f*cking underground vault of mechanical testosterone.
My cigarette twitched in the corner of my mouth. Invicta turned to me with a cocked hip and a smug little grin that could've started wars.
"Take your pick, hotshot. You're driving."
I exhaled slowly, smoke curling around the edges of my smirk.
"…f*ck Its good to be filthy rich Isnt It?"
I asked as I swung the black hellcats door open with a satisfying hiss, like the beast was holding its breath until it got a worthy driver.
I slid into the leather seat and felt it cradle my upgraded frame that proved to be a bit of an Inconvienence, but a quick seat adjustment did the trick.
"Well duh, ofcourse It Is"
Invicta answered with a grin as she slid into the passenger seat beside me with a casual bounce, one leg folded under the other like she was born for shotgun royalty.
She snapped her seatbelt on without a word and leaned back, resting her elbow on the door, her expression unreadable but undeniably smug.
I hit the screen. Music: ON. The speakers lit up with a growl of bass and the first riffs of S*baton, F*ve F*nger D*ath P*nch hell, maybe D*om E*ernal's soundtrack itself, it didn't matter.
Whatever it was, it hit like a brick to the soul. I ignited the engine with a slow twist of the key.
RRRROOOOOAAARRRRRRRRRR.
The Hellcat came to life like a demon awoken from a long nap growling, snarling, vibrating like it was pissed at every other car in the world just for existing.
I grinned, gripped the wheel, and floored the accelerator just for the hell of it.
VVRRROOOOOOMMM.
"F*ck, that feels good, even better that nutting In a MILF"
I muttered, voice nearly lost under the scream of the engine and the sound of screaming guitars.
"Tch, you still didnt have a taste of me"
Invicta clicked her tongue on the side as she did I glanced at her and blinked.
F*ck you acursed Infernal woman stop messing with me, Its bad for my mental health and my poor family jewels.
I cursed In my mind as I threw the beast into gear and peeled out of the garage, tires screaming against the pavement, it was like the city unfolded before me.
I dropped the windows, let the stale wind of a dying civilization rush in, and lit another cigarette. The cherry glowed like a dying star at the corner of my mouth, smoke trailing behind me in the breeze.
The streets were quiet. Too quiet. Not ghost town quiet, but the calm before the storm kind. Empty intersections. Military transports rumbling in the distance. Checkpoints with bored soldiers.
Cargo trucks with the occasional civilian car passing by. Bunkers with no windows. People didn't walk much these days, they scurried, when they had to.
It looked like a g*dsdamn apocalypse that forgot to finish the job. Invicta finally broke the silence, eyes still scanning the desolate cityscape from behind her shades.
"So…"
She said, stretching the word like a loaded gun.
"Who are we picking up first?"
I didn't look at her. Just exhaled another lungful of smoke out the window and muttered.
"My nieces."
She raised an eyebrow, but I kept going.
"Two pampered little wet behind their ears sh*ts. Think they're the g*dsdamn queens of the world. Social media zombies with more followers than sense. Always swarmed with good for nothing young masters, always partying and doing only g*ds know what else."
Invicta snorted, amused.
"But… they're blood,"
I added with a sigh, tapping ash out the window.
"Apart from them, my sister's a shut In that has no social life, and neither of my other two cousins who are both bachelor geeks, one with brains and muscle and the other with brains and "fashion sense" ever had kids. If I'm dragging anyone out of the coming storm, it's them."
"Ah,"
She replied, nodding slightly.
"So you're the grumpy apocalypse uncle."
"Damn right I am"
I said, flicking the blinker for no one, because it was the habit of a once disciplined army grunt trying to pretend the world still had rules.
"And I'm bringing the f*cking cavalry."
I downshifted and floored it as the Hellcat screamed through the dying on Its last legs civilization a black bullet aimed straight at fate.
...
City Center Elite Private High Scholl Courtyard aka basically the place where the rich kids gather.
The school grounds were too quiet. Unnaturally so. A subtle haze hung in the air, thick with smoke and the creeping sense that the world was unraveling just beyond the ivy covered walls of privilege.
Two female highschoolers that still though that the world revolved around them stood under the grand arch of the front gate.
Catherine and Morgana both 170 centimeters tall give or take a decimeter, but you'd swear they were ten feet tall with how they carried themselves.
High tier bombshells with the kind of beauty that launched scandals and bankruptcies. Hourglass curves wrapped in dangerously tight uniforms, the academy's regulation white blouses worn with just enough buttons undone to make every onlooker forget how to breathe.
Black mini skirts. Thigh high stockings. Designer bags slung lazily over their shoulders. They were waiting.
Well, supposed to be waiting, for their mother aka Draculas cousin. But instead, they were being circled.
Eleven young men, all clad in designer coats, shoes worth more than the average salaryman's annual income, and enough cologne to start a fire, "Young masters," as they liked to call themselves.
"Come on, Catherine,"
One drawled, brushing his dyed bangs aside.
"Your mom's probably not coming. Come chill with us. We've got a penthouse view of the chaos and a cellar full of vintage."
"Yeah,"
Another added, eyes lingering far too long on her unbuttoned chest.
"What's the point of watching the world end sober?"
Catherine didn't even blink.
"What's the point of watching it end with clowns?"
Morgana scoffed, pulling out her mirror and fixing her lip gloss.
"Besides. We wouldn't be caught dead in the backseat of your imported midlife crises."
Laughter followed but not from the boys. Their so called leader taller, broader, basically the biggest and baddest young master arround the block, the prodigal son of one of the citys conglamorates stepped forward. His smile was tight, his eyes cold.
"Tch! You dumb b*tches you really think you two can talk to me like that? Now?"
He glanced up at the sky, darkening clouds, drones flying like vultures, military patrols in the distance.
"The world's gone to sh*t,"
He said, voice low, slow.
"And people like me? We do what we want."
Without warning, his hand moved. A sharp sound. Two gasps. Catherine and Morgana staggered back, stunned, palms on reddening cheeks, eyes wide in disbelief. He leaned in, voice like poisoned velvet.
"You two are coming with me. You think you're better than everyone else? Not anymore. I'm going to have fun while there's still fun to be had, the only reason I played nice up till now was because youre mom still had some standing but now... hehehe..."
The other young masters shifted smirking, emboldened by his display only for the sound of screeching tires as a black Hellcat rolled into the courtyard to grab their attention, its engine growling like some demon pulled from a warlord's dream.
The music still thumped from within, some aggressive metal beat that made the heart skip. From the driver's side, a man stepped out.
Two meters tall. Built like the bastard child of a tank and a war g*d. Black paramilitary boots. Tactical pants.
A black shirt clinging to a physique sculpted in pain, fire, and steel. Black leather jacket, rings on his fingers like trophies of war, cigarette hanging from his lips like it owed him rent. And next to him?
A woman. 180 centimeters of dangerous curves and pure chaos. Skintight black yoga pants, a tank top that didn't even try to play modest, hoodie wrapped casually around her hips.
Hair tied into a high ponytail. Arms crossed. And a smirk that made grown men forget they had spines.
For a moment deathly silence followed as the man scanned them from head to toe like a predator, then his eyes focused on the Catherine and Morgana with swelling cheeks.