Ewan had always wondered if he would be in this position again—before an onslaught of bullets, heart hamring, adrenaline surging—after taking his place in his family’s company.
For years, he had convinced himself that boardroom negotiations, corporate deals, and endless paperwork had replaced the days of ducking fire and leading missions. But so things never left a man.
The thought had haunted him often during quiet nights, the question whispering: what if it happens again? What if you find yourself before the barrel of a gun, and your team isn’t there to cover you? What if you’re alone?
Now, with walls echoing with gunfire and shouts, with plaster chipping above his head from a spray of bullets, that question was no longer hypothetical.
And strangely—he smiled.
Because as soon as the trigger pulled, as soon as danger pressed in on all sides, his body rembered. His training ca alive in him like muscle mory. His hands and legs moved as if they had been waiting, itching for this exact mont.
Everything synced: his breath, his eyes, the rhythm of his heart. He moved in one accord, in one flow, like a current of water rushing through cracks in stone.
The first man ca from the left, bursting forward, gun raised. Ewan didn’t even blink. His pistol lifted, barked once, and the man crumpled, his weapon clattering against the tiles.
But Ewan didn’t stay in one place, not with the incoming angry n. He darted forward, boots striking hard against the floor, then vaulted onto the wall in a smooth arc. His legs found grip where no normal man should have found footing, and he kicked off, twisting his body midair.
Bullets sprayed beneath him, but his pistol spoke more than twice before he landed, each shot finding its mark in the n below. Four bodies hit the ground, their fighting objects limp by their sides, before he even touched down.
The mont his boots kissed the floor, he was already rolling, already firing backward at the enemies chasing him from behind. His movents were so fluid it almost looked choreographed, like he had rehearsed every step.
He crouched as bullets flew past, firing back, sparks flashing from tal scraping against concrete. He ducked beneath a swinging baton, drove his shoulder into the assailant’s chest, and fired point-blank before the man could even gasp. He didn’t linger, didn’t gloat. Every move was transition into the next, a dancer in a ballet of death.
He pushed deeper into the hallway, every step asured, every breath controlled. Door by door, he moved, shoulder against wood, gun raised. He kicked one open thereafter and froze for a fraction of a second.
Inside were things that made his stomach twist—obscene scenes, naked abused won forced into corners, eyes wide with terror, the criminals using them like shields.
His finger tensed on the trigger, instinct screaming at him to shoot, but discipline held him back. He couldn’t risk hitting innocents.
The nearest thug smirked, thinking Ewan was hesitating in fear. He didn’t realize Ewan was waiting for the perfect mont.
And when it ca—when the criminals finally turned their focus away from him for a second, in order to leave the bed to accost him, thereby leaving the won unshielded—Ewan acted imdiately. His pistol spat fire, clean and precise. Three shots. Three n down. He lowered his gun slowly, letting the ringing silence fill the room.
The won blinked at him, trembling. One of them whimpered. Ewan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say a word. He turned, leaving the door wide open, a silent invitation for them to run. To escape.
But even if they didn’t, the state security service would soon invade the building. Aiden had dropped a tip to them, a late one, intentionally.
Ewan, anwhile, repeated this through the rooms. Kick. Enter. Judge. Shoot. Leave. Always moving, always flowing. So rooms stank of smoke and sweat. Others were dens of gambling or drugs. Each ti, he found criminals, and each ti, he cut them down with the rciless precision of a man trained for this exact nightmare.
Blood pooled on the floorboards, shadows stretched long under the flickering bulbs, and still he pressed forward, one door after another, one body after another.
By the ti he reached the stairs to the last floor, his breathing was heavier, but his focus sharper. He climbed step by step, his pistol steady, eyes scanning every corner.
The second floor greeted him with silence—a silence he didn’t trust. He walked slowly, almost crouched, the muzzle of his pistol leading the way. And then...
A figure stood at the end of the corridor, just outside a heavy door. A girl. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, her hair tied back ssily, a rifle steady in her hands.
She was pale under the hallway’s dim light, but her eyes were hard, defiant. She raised her gun, and Ewan froze.
Sothing about her stopped him cold. She reminded him of Heronica. The angle of her chin, the stubborn line of her mouth, even the way her hands shook but held steady anyway.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated.
And that hesitation cost him.
The crack of a gunshot ripped through the corridor, and searing pain tore into his thigh. He groaned, staggering back, hitting the wall with a grunt, settling behind it, just close to the stairs. His pistol nearly slipped from his hand, but he gritted his teeth and held on.
The girl kept shooting, each round tearing into the walls around him. From the sound and rhythm, he knew she was getting closer, step by step.
"Are you scared to fight, old man?" she shouted, voice shaking but loud. "Co out, sot!"
Him? A sot?
Despite the burning pain in his leg, Ewan almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because of the absurdity of it—here he was, bleeding, hunted, cornered, and still his pride found the insult ridiculous.
He touched the wound at his thigh, grimacing. The pad he’d worn had taken the worst of it, but blood still seeped through. A surface wound, maybe, but no less painful.
His eyes flicked to his pack. Only one cartridge left.
"One bullet," he muttered under his breath. "Better be worth it."
He inhaled slowly, counting seconds, mind calculating, heart steadying. He needed her to take position—sowhere predictable, sowhere he could end it with precision.
And then he saw it: the broken glass scattered on the floor, catching faint light, reflecting her shadow as she stepped closer. Her boots crunched against it, revealing her exact spot without her realizing.
Perfect.
He steadied his hand, lined up the shot, and fired—not at her chest, not at her head, but at her right leg; rcy prevailing.
Her scream split the air, high and raw. She crumpled, gun clattering as she fell.
Ewan rolled his eyes, exhaling harshly as the tension broke. He pushed off the wall and stepped out from cover, limping slightly, gun still raised.
"Don’t," he said sharply, when her hand twitched toward her weapon. His voice carried steel, cold and final. "If you want to live, don’t."
Her hand went limp. Her face twisted with pain, but she didn’t reach for the gun again.
Ewan bent down, picked the weapon up, and straightened with a wince.
"Is there soone in there?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the door behind her. His voice was flat, no-nonsense.
The girl glared at him, and spat on the ground.
"You don’t know who you’ve angered," she hissed. "You don’t know what you’ve brought upon yourself..."
Ewan tilted his head, his face unreadable. Then, with a faint shrug, he replied, "I actually do. And if you knew who I am, you wouldn’t be so optimistic about my downfall."
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