Protagonist! Please Stay Away from Me 2!-Chapter 56: Why Am I Always Called ’Exotic?’
Sharon took a deep, steadying breath, wiping gore-smeared hands on her ruined shirt as she descended the grand staircase.
The mansion reeked of fresh slaughter—coppery blood and ruptured bowels—but she couldn’t stop now. Answers waited downstairs, maybe in the study. Her grip tightened on the sticky hammer, pulse still thundering from the bedroom massacre.
Halfway down, a shadow lunged—a burly assailant in tactical gear, eyes feral under his hood. He tackled her like a freight train, massive arms slamming her spine-first onto the dining table.
Mahogany splintered with a deafening crack, shards exploding outward as they crashed through in a tangle of limbs and shattered crystal. Pain lanced through her ribs, breath exploding from her lungs, but survival instinct kicked in hard.
Groaning, Sharon snatched a jagged table leg—splintered end needle-sharp—and drove it upward with desperate force. It punched through his sternum like a spear, grating against ribs before burying deep into his heart.
Hot blood gushed in rhythmic spurts, soaking her chest as he convulsed, arterial spray painting her face in crimson mist. His mouth gaped in a silent scream, bubbles of frothy blood erupting from punctured lungs.
Not dead yet. She rolled him off, snatching her scavenged pistol from his belt—still warm from his grip. Hammer in one hand, gun in the other, she rose on shaky legs, world tilting. Footsteps pounded from the foyer—more shadows converging.
Come on, you bastards.
She fired first, double-taps barking: one intruder’s forehead cratered, brains erupting backward in a gray-pink slurry that splattered the chandelier; another’s throat exploded, windpipe shredding as he clutched the gaping ruin, drowning in his own gurgle.
Bullets chewed through walls, ricocheting with deadly whines. The magazine clicked empty after several bodies dropped, casings skittering across marble like brass confetti amid pooling viscera.
No time to reload. A fresh goon charged from the kitchen—knife flashing. Sharon vaulted the banister, slamming into him mid-air.
They hit the floor hard, her momentum twisting his arm with a wet snap—ulna and radius shattering like glass. He howled, knife clattering free. She straddled his thrashing form, prying his jaws apart with iron fingers.
"Choke on this," she snarled, ramming the hammer’s claw-end down his gullet.
It tore through soft palate with a meaty rip, steel grinding molars to bloody paste as she twisted viciously. Teeth fragmented, spraying enamel shards; oesophagus ruptured in a vomit of bile and gore.
He bucked wildly, eyes bulging as the hammer punched into his brain stem from below—sparks of final agony firing neurons into chaos. Gray matter oozed from his nostrils and ears, body seizing in death throes, bowels evacuating in a stinking flood.
"Fuck you!" Sharon hissed, yanking the hammer free with a slurping pop, skullcap caving inward to reveal a pulped cavern. She staggered to her feet amid the carnage—bodies strewn like broken dolls, walls a Jackson Pollock of blood and tissue, air thick with gunpowder and eviscerated guts.
At that moment, another man ran towards her while shooting bullets at her. Sharon dodged the bullets as she hid behind the counter. Grabbing a plate, she waited for him to get near her range. As soon as she saw his foot, she smashed the plate on his face.
The pieces of the plate lodged into his face as he bled profusely. Sharon kicked his groin, causing him to fall on the ground. She twirled the hammer and crushed his head with one attack.
With a squelching sound, she removed the hammer—scanning her surroundings for more men.
Suddenly, she heard a small noise near her. Was someone waiting to attack her as soon as she put her guard down? A fucking fool.
"Whoever you are—wherever you are hiding—I will request you to come out before I kill you too."
"I’m not hiding," a smooth, unfamiliar voice sliced through the carnage, cool as polished steel.
Sharon whipped around, hammer raised and dripping gore, muscles coiled for another kill. There, amid the slaughterhouse wreckage of the foyer, stood a woman with vibrant green hair cascading like toxic vines over sleek black tactical attire—form-fitting leather and Kevlar, hugging curves that screamed predator, not prey.
Her face was stunningly beautiful: high cheekbones, full lips curved in faint amusement, eyes like shattered emeralds scanning the bodies with clinical detachment. Blood pooled at her boots, but she didn’t flinch.
"Who the hell are you?" Sharon demanded, voice low and edged, circling slowly. She gripped her hammer tighter.
The woman arched a perfect brow, smirking as she nudged a corpse’s shattered skull with her toe—brain matter squelching underfoot. "Me? I should be asking you that. The way you turned these idiots into hamburger—with a fucking hammer, no less? Utterly brutal. No one carves through a hit squad like that. It’s almost... artistic."
Sharon’s grip tightened, knuckles whitening. She snarled, "Your fate ends the same if you don’t walk away. Now."
The green-haired woman laughed softly, a sound like wind chimes in a graveyard, unfazed. She took a step closer, hands visible but poised. "Can’t do that, darling. Too much at stake." Her gaze locked on Sharon’s, smirk widening into something predatory. "You’re Tina’s exotic girlfriend, aren’t you? The one who tamed her... appetites."
"Exotic?" Sharon spat, irritation flaring alongside wariness. The word stung, reducing her to a fetish in this mad world.
"Yeah," the woman purred, eyes raking over Sharon’s blood-soaked form with blatant appreciation. "I came here expecting Tina—maybe to tie up loose ends—but I find you instead. Quite the surprise. All that raw power, covered in their guts. Turns out you’re more than just arm candy."
Sharon’s mind raced as she glared at her. "What does Tina have to do with this? These assholes invading her mansion? Spill it, or join the pile."
The woman tilted her head, green locks shifting like serpents. "Oh, honey, Tina’s at the heart of it." She glanced at the ceiling, as if sensing surveillance. "But you’re no ordinary sidepiece. Question is—ally or obstacle?"
"It doesn’t matter."
"Truce? We talk somewhere less... public. Unless you want to scrape off the walls next to these losers."
