Chapter 133 Smoked
The neighbors from Building 25, adhering to Steven's command, reluctantly armed themselves and surrounded Building 21. They exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of what Steven intended. If a skirmish erupted, their loosely formed perimeter seemed futile.
Meanwhile, upstairs in Building 21, the Crazy Wolves sensed impending doom.
"Steven's brought people to surround us!" one man warned, his voice trembling.
A collective shiver ran through the gang members. Just earlier, Steven had single-handedly massacred numerous men, including their leader Samuel—the memory of which left them paralyzed with fear. Now, facing the reality of Steven's encroachment, panic surged.
"My God, it's the end! How can we fight that demon? He's unstoppable!" a rogue wailed, clutching his head in despair.
Aaron, second-in-command of the gang, stormed over, yanking the rogue by his collar and delivering two sharp slaps.
"What are you afraid of?!" Aaron bellowed. "This is our territory. Even if Steven has a gun, it won't be easy for him to breach! Pull yourselves together. There is a fight ahead."
With Aaron barely maintaining order, the gang members forced themselves to remain vigilant, gripping their weapons and guarding every entry point. They braced themselves, awaiting Steven's charge to confront him in a last stand.
But Steven didn’t mount a direct assault. Instead, he positioned his people to monitor every window of Building 21, ensuring no escape routes. Then, with measured steps, Steven approached the entrance of the fourth floor.
A brief flash in his right eye heralded the appearance of a large pile of freshly cut, damp wood, rapidly filling the room. Next, he materialized a massive heap of cheap synthetic clothes, almost crowding the space.
Only then did Steven extract a can of gasoline from his store and doused the floor. Satisfied with his preparations, he exited the room. His neighbors, stationed at a distance, were unaware of his meticulous mechanizations.
Drawing his handgun, Steven aimed and fired at the gasoline canister. The liquid gushed out, spreading towards the doorway like a volatile trail. With a flick of his lighter, he ignited the gasoline fuse. Flames leaped, quickly illuminating the room.
He withdrew promptly, and within moments, a fierce blaze roared to life. The synthetic clothes ignited instantaneously, fire consuming the garments in a hungry blaze. The damp wood, once relieved of its surface moisture, rapidly caught flame. Burning inefficiently, they produced a thick, acrid black smoke. This smoke, mingling with that from the synthetic clothes, surged upwards like a malevolent spirit.
In the frigid weather, every window in the building had been tightly shut. Thus, the smoke had no avenue of escape. It snaked upwards, infiltrating every crevice and crack.
Like a black serpent, it quickly engulfed one floor after another.The Crazy Wolves, still poised for Steven's assault, were blindsided by the pungent, suffocating black smoke.
"They're setting fire!!" one screamed.
"Damn it! Steven, you cunning rat! Even with a gun, you resort to this!" another spat, choking.
"Open the windows! Let the smoke out!" came a frantic cry.
"Water! We need water! Wet anything and cover your noses!"
"There's no water! It's all ice!"
"Then piss on it! Anything!"
"My eyes! They're burning! I can't see!"
Amidst the cacophony of choking and gasping, the thick smoke saturated every corner of the building. As realization dawned, the gang members scrambled, frantically attempting to pry open the windows for ventilation. Yet, in such a frigid environment, the windows had become hermetically sealed by ice and snow, rendering their efforts futile. The apartment had transformed into a giant, deadly oven, and they were trapped inside like helpless poultry.
Outside the inferno, Steven stood with a rifle, his face bathed in the golden glow of the flames. The scene evoked memories of the bonfire parties from his college days, where laughter and music filled the air. Tonight's blaze, however, was more intense, more expansive, and bathed in an unsettling sense of finality.
Slowly, the surrounding neighbors grasped Steven’s intentions. The harrowing cries and hacking coughs emanating from inside the building sent shivers down their spines. It had become a death trap, with no chance of escape; the sole exit was guarded by the implacable Steven.
The gangsters was facing a grim ultimatum: perish inside or confront a certain death outside.
Desperation soon seized someone within, prompting them to rush down the smoke-filled stairway, only to stumble blindly into the consuming flames. A gut-wrenching scream marked his fiery demise.
Shortly after, another detainee, overcome by terror, shattered a window and leaped from a deadly height, choosing the dubious mercy of the ground over suffocation. His crumpled body landed harshly, his brief moment of hope dashed by Vanessa Gray’s swift blade.
Two neighbors chuckled heartily. "Vanessa, you've come a long way. You used to be scared to even kill a chicken!"
Vanessa, basking in the acknowledgment, smiled. She calmly wiped the blood from her face and said, "Everyone's putting in the work; I can't fall behind!" Noticing another figure plummeting, she eagerly approached, cleaver in hand, and swiftly decapitated the writhing man.
Other neighbors mirrored Vanessa's grim enthusiasm, as the gang members above, oblivious to their fate, continued to hurl themselves from the windows, falsely believing it was their only escape route.
Despite the macabre choreography, the neighbors were energized by an unfamiliar warmth. Watching the mesmerizing dance of the flames, they wore warm, satisfied smiles.
"The flames are so beautiful!" one marveled.
"Indeed. We should do this kind of ceremony more often," another concurred.
Amid the bustling chaos, Steven stood at the entrance, reveling in the heat.
Across the neighborhood, inhabitants of other apartment buildings bore witness to the horrific spectacle. The towering flames, the thick black smoke, and the intermittent screams of anguish filled them with dread.
'What should we do? Will Steven use the same method on us?' they wondered, panic clawing at their sanity.
Fight? Yet, how could they? Their meager flesh and bones versus Steven’s precision rifle? The brutal memory of Samuel and over forty others decimated by Steven's gunfire was still raw in their minds.
They did not dare.
'Steven won't target everyone,’ they tried to convince themselves. ‘He'll only go after those directly involved.’
Clinging to this faint hope, they preferred to pray for God's mercy rather than take the risk and fight back.
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