Bang!
Hunter was deep in a sweet dream when a frantic pounding on his door jolted him awake.
No, "pounding" was too polite. Someone was trying to smash the door down.
Hunter's eyes snapped open.
Instinctively, his hand shot out and grabbed the pistol from his Personal Inventory.
Gripping the gun tight, he leaped out of bed.
He lived in a rundown, secluded part of Los Angeles. It wasn't safe. Brawls, gang wars, and break-ins were common.
Even though he had been in this parallel world for over a month and had acclimated to his new life, the high crime rates and constant danger of LA still put him on edge.
He had to stay armed. That was a lesson written in the blood of countless immigrants before him.
Bang!
The smashing intensified.
Hunter, now fully alert, assessed the threat. He didn't know who was outside, but their intent was clearly malicious.
Since he slept naked, he quickly pulled on a pair of boxer briefs.
Gun in hand, he crept behind the sofa and crouched down.
His apartment was small—maybe 400 square feet. Aside from the partitioned kitchen and bathroom, there was almost no cover between the living room and the bedroom.
Bang!
Another heavy impact. The wooden door frame splintered. The hinges groaned, nails popping out of the drywall.
It wouldn't hold much longer.
Hunter stared at the door, clicking the safety off his M1911.
In the US, "Castle Doctrine" applied. If someone broke into your home, you could shoot them dead without legal repercussions.
That was why you didn't trespass on private ranches or luxury estates. The owners could—and would—turn you into Swiss cheese legally.
CRASH!
With a final, deafening boom, the door gave way.
Through the dust, Hunter saw three men storm in.
They were all in their thirties—one white, two Hispanic. All burly, all looking for trouble.
Hunter froze for a split second, then lowered his gun slightly.
He recognized one of them.
Slant.
When Vince first bullied Hunter (Hunter's predecessor), Slant had been right there beside him, laughing.
"So these are Vince's friends," Hunter realized. "Probably Dom's crew members."
Because of Mia, Hunter didn't want to burn the bridge with Dom completely. Even knowing this was a "Fusion Universe," making an enemy of the Toretto family wasn't smart unless necessary.
If Vince hadn't been a persistent parasite, Hunter would have just taught him a lesson instead of hospitalizing him.
But Vince was like a sticky plaster—he wouldn't peel off.
Hunter had beaten Vince, and Dom hadn't even shown up yet. Instead, his lackeys jumped the gun.
Hunter's temper flared.
"Damn it. Is this ever going to end?"
Rage surged. Hunter abandoned his defensive crouch and stood up from behind the sofa.
Slant and his two goons jumped, startled by Hunter's sudden appearance.
But Slant recovered quickly. He pointed a finger at Hunter and roared.
"That's him! He's the one who hurt Vince!"
"Get him! Break his arms and legs!"
Dom Toretto was the King of LA. His crew was massive. It wasn't just Vince, Letty, Jesse, and Leon. There were dozens of hangers-on, drivers, and mechanics in his orbit.
Hunter didn't want to kill Dom, but if his goons kept coming...
Even a saint would get angry.
Hunter grabbed the heavy armchair next to him—a solid piece of furniture weighing at least 50 pounds.
With his Strength (14), he lifted it like it was made of Styrofoam.
To Slant and his boys, it looked like a magic trick.
WHOOSH—CRASH!
One of the Hispanic thugs didn't expect the skinny Asian kid to have that kind of explosive power.
Hunter targeted him first because he was holding a metal baseball bat.
Before the thug could react, the armchair flew across the room and smashed into him.
"ARGH!"
The thug screamed as 50 pounds of furniture slammed him to the floor. His arm—the one holding the bat—bent at a sickening angle.
Broken. Instantly.
"Bert!"
Slant shouted, enraged by his friend's injury.
He charged at Hunter, throwing a punch aimed at his face.
Meanwhile, the third thug reached into his back pocket.
Click.
A switchblade flicked open.
Slant had visited Vince in the hospital. He knew Hunter knew boxing. He wasn't stupid enough to fight fair. He brought backup and weapons.
Three against one. Street fighting rules.
But Slant didn't account for one thing: Hunter wasn't just a boxer. He was a superhuman.
Hunter had planned to spar a bit, maybe level up his Unarmed Combat skill.
But the moment he saw the knife, his face hardened.
Lethal force authorized.
Hunter unleashed his full power.
He dodged Slant's punch and countered with two lightning-fast jabs that left Slant dazed.
Then, he grabbed Slant and shoved him hard toward the knife-wielding thug.
The thug with the knife panicked, pulling his blade back to avoid stabbing his friend.
That hesitation was fatal.
Hunter launched himself into the air.
A flying kick, fueled by rage and 14 Strength.
THUD!
"GAH!"
The kick connected with the knife-wielder's chest.
He flew backward like a ragdoll, slamming into the refrigerator three meters away before sliding to the floor, gasping for air.
Hunter didn't stop.
He landed, pivoted, and rushed the disoriented Slant.
One solid punch to the jaw.
Crack.
Slant's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the ground.
Three intruders.
Ten seconds.
Total defeat.
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