Something was off about the situation. Something, at the back of his mind, was telling him that there was more to what was happening than simply a weird crackhead party he'd stumbled upon. But that part of the mind wasn't dealing with the immediate situation, and Kevin had to prioritise the scenario. He clicked the safety on his weapon back in the split-second before he decided how he would act.
The man moved to the corner but still stood up. It infuriated him, the lack of compliance with his order triggering instant reactions to the situation, even as his mind caught on the man's words. He darted toward him. The guy covered his face and crouched in an instinctive way, all the more to minimise the damage of an impending attack, leaning on his good leg as he did so. Kevin was counting on that, and instead of striking with his knee at the abdomen, as he'd initially been planning, pulled the blow at the last minute, and used the momentum to swing around and carry him bodily to the floor, both of them hitting the concrete solidly as they did so. His flashlight went skittering across the floor, flickering with the impact.
The difference was that Kevin had planned it, and hit the ground with a roll, coming back up in a split second as he grabbed an arm, twisting it back as he slapped the handcuffs he still carried around one wrist. He set his gun down behind him, and from the stress position he'd started, it was easy to pull the other arm around and link the two cuffs up.
He kicked the man in the stomach for good measure, winding him in the process, before he stood up to his full height.
"Stay there," he growled, before picking up the weapon, and aiming it into the corner, leaning to retrieve his flashlight, which retained its electric connection and scythed into... whatever was happening on the far side of the garage.
From this distance, Kevin couldn't tell if they were male or female, covered in blood as they were from the gaping wound in their throat, which scythed brutally into the carotid artery and carried on going. Their cries were feeble now, and although he knew, already knew, that he could do nothing, Kevin rushed to their side.
A man, barely 17 by the looks of it, with his throat torn out.
He knew what had done this, realised it as the lights in his eyes went out, and the gurgling whimper ceased.
"Well, fuck," he said at the man in cuffs, looking down at the restraints that still tied the man's pale wrists to the chair. "This is exactly why I don't like hunters. All about the hunt, not about saving people."