(LIMITLESS) CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: DOGS II

The warehouse stank of sweat, rust, and wet fur, the kind of cloying mixture rot that stuck to your skin and made your lungs feel heavy. The metal walls were lined with makeshift cages, each one barely welded together from old fencing and scrap. At least four dogs whimpered in the corners, their eyes wide with fear, ribs visible through matted fur.

Taylor didn’t wait.

The moment she took in the scene—five bald men with wife beaters and racist tattoos, a ring of cages, the distressed animals—they became targets.

Blue surged from her arm, a ball of attraction that wrenched one of the cages free from the floor with a metallic shriek. She sent it slamming into the nearest thug, flattening him against the wall in a crunch of metal and breath.

Gallant was right behind her, hurling orbs of compressed light the size of cannonballs at one of the thugs. Each blast lit up the warehouse in brief, blinding flashes, forcing the man into a frantic, stumbling retreat. Satisfied he had that one locked down, Taylor went after the others—there were still three more, and none of them were ready for her.

One tried to draw a gun—he barely cleared the holster before her boot struck his wrist with a sickening pop. Another dove behind an empty cage. She yanked it sideways with Blue, dragging the man with it, his shout cut off by the impact. The last had run off while she was distracted. 

Still, the fight lasted less than thirty seconds.

When it ended, Taylor stood at the center of the warehouse, breath steady. Her eyes swept the room—four men down, bruised and moaning but still very much alive, even if one could argue they deserved worse. 

Gallant snapped the last set of cuffs into place with practiced motion, kneeling beside the groaning thug. “I, for one, am glad you are on our side,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. “God help us if you ever weren’t.”

Taylor didn’t say anything.

She was already turning, her attention fixed on the far side of the warehouse—on the silhouette that hadn’t moved since Gallant started restraining the men.

Another cape was watching.

And then the figure stepped forward, into the light.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A worn leather jacket hung open over a pale, tight shirt. His face was covered by a crude mask shaped like a snarling wolf, seemingly fashioned from welded scrap and painted a dull, brutal gray. Blond hair slicked back, posture relaxed, but everything about him radiated coiled violence.

“Impressive,” the man said, voice smooth but edged with something she couldn't understand. “You really don’t mess around.”

His eyes, visible through the mask’s slits, locked onto Taylor and held. Something in the way he looked at her sent a jolt through her chest. Not just menace. Recognition. And with it, a flood of memory and rage.

“Hookwolf.”

He tilted his head slightly, the steel contours of his mask catching the low warehouse light. “Brad, when I’m off the clock.”

The air shifted, and she lowered herself slightly. She was ready for whatever he planned, but it seemed Gallant had other plans. 

He moved beside her, his voice ringing out clearly. “Don’t do anything rash.”

Taylor wasn’t sure who he meant—her or Hookwolf. Probably both. But she didn’t take her eyes off the man across from them.

“Wouldn’t want to be rude,” Hookwolf said, taking a casual step forward. “But I’ve got a bone to pick with the girl.”

Taylor’s voice was ice. “You can try.”

Still keeping the villain within sight, she focused. Drew in a breath.

And widened her forcefield, bringing Gallant into its radius without touching him to shield them both inside that impossible space.

Hookwolf slowed.

It wasn’t hesitation exactly, but something close—his boot scuffed against the concrete just outside the edge of the field. As if he could feel it, even without seeing or knowing what it was. Just that something was different. 

Careful bastard.

“I lost someone,” Taylor said in the ensuing silence. Her voice didn’t shake, but it threatened to. “A man who gave a damn about people like me.”

Hookwolf said nothing. Just watched her.

“Someone burned down his gym,” she continued, jaw clenched. “Lynched him.”

A flicker of something passed across Hookwolf’s eyes, sharp and ugly. Not guilt. Something closer to amusement.

“You think it was us?”

“There was an Empire tag on the ruins,” she said. “I know it was you.”

Hookwolf’s words came out as a snarl. “Doesn't mean shit. Any fucker can spray a wall.”

The words hit like stone, dull and flat—but they echoed louder than they should have.

Taylor’s grip tightened at her sides as doubt—small, unwelcome—crept in at the edges of her thoughts.

Was he lying?

Or was someone framing the Empire for something even they didn’t do?

Because the Empire didn’t hide their crimes—they flaunted them. A lynching like that? They would’ve paraded it as a warning, not buried it in ash and silence.

If it wasn’t about hiding…

Then it was personal.

Someone wanted to hurt her dearly. 

Either way, Taylor decided, it didn’t matter.

Not now. 

She would figure out the truth later, and hunt whoever did that. All of them.

But right now, Hookwolf was still talking. 

His voice curled with venom. 

“But here’s a word of advice, girl: to avoid shit like that, don't get close to a dirty—”

That was as far as she was willing to let him go, every muscle in her body tensing for movement.

But Gallant caught her wrist just in time, just barely, his fingers wrapping around her and armor locking her in place. He seemed momentarily stunned he could do that, but it passed, and he steadied himself. 

“Taylor,” he said, firm. “Don’t. He’s a cape—we don’t have clearance for that.”

The warning wasn’t mostly out of fear. It was protocol. They’d been authorized to deal with the grunts, nothing more. Hookwolf was above their pay grade—officially.

Unofficially? Taylor was already past caring. Her pulse roared in her ears.

Hookwolf was laughing—a harsh, sharp bark of cruelty. “Come on, girl! I’ve been meaning to pay you back for that attack in the loading dock. Let’s finish it, yeah?”

The sounds of his transformation filled the space. Metal screamed as it tore free from flesh, his face disappearing beneath an armored helm of whirring death while his body expanded, sprouting blades of all kind and twisted steel.

Taylor didn’t hesitate.

“Taylor,” Gallant warned again, but it was already too late. 

She pulled free from his grip.