I kill the headlights and coast the Charger the last few feet, letting momentum carry me to a stop. The engine ticks as it cools, the sound too loud in the silence. When I open the door, the air hits me—thick and metallic, coating the back of my throat like I’ve been sucking on pennies.
Iron. Copper. Gunpowder.
Blood. Fresh blood.
I’ve smelled it enough times to know the difference between old and new, between a single body and multiple casualties. This is recent. Within the hour. Maybe less.
Inside, the concrete floor glistens dark and wet under the flicker of a dying bulb. The light strobes—on, off, on—casting everything in harsh shadows and sickly yellow illumination. My boots make wet sounds as I walk, each step punctuated by the squelch of blood spreading across the floor in slow, creeping pools.
Vincent’s right-hand man—Marco—lies half-propped against the far wall, one hand pressed uselessly to the hole in his gut. His shirt is soaked black, blood pooling around him in an expanding circle that’s already starting to congeal at the edges. He’s still breathing, somehow. Shallow, rattling breaths that sound like they hurt, like every inhale is dragging broken glass through his lungs.
I crouch down in front of him, keeping my expression neutral. Steady. Not showing the calculation running through my head—how long he has, what he might know, whether he’s worth saving or just wasting the oxygen he’s stealing.
“Marco.”
The man coughs, blood flecking his teeth and lips. His eyes struggle to focus on me, pupils blown wide with shock and pain. “You... shouldn’t be here, Koa.” Another wet cough that sounds like it’s tearing something inside. “Run.”
I ignore the advice. “Where is he?”
Marco’s head lolls back against the wall, the movement sluggish and uncoordinated. His skin is gray, lips turning blue. “Dead.” The word comes out as barely a whisper. Another cough, weaker this time. “He’s dead.”
My jaw tightens. For a second, I don’t believe it—not because Vincent didn’t deserve to die, not because I’m mourning the bastard. But because him dying like this, without me there,without me getting to watch the light leave his eyes... it means the game ended without me finishing it. It means someone else got to win, got to claim the kill that should have been mine after everything he put me through.
Marco’s eyes flick over my shoulder, sudden fear cutting through the pain-fog. His voice cracks with genuine terror. “Run.”
A single gunshot answers him.
The back of his skull explodes against the concrete wall, painting it with brain matter and bone fragments. Red and pink and white splatter. His body slumps sideways, the light leaving his eyes between one breath and the next, his final exhale rattling out wet and final.
I don’t flinch. Don’t turn around yet. Just watch Marco’s corpse settle, cataloging the entry wound, the spray pattern, the way his fingers are still twitching with residual nerve impulses. Give it ten seconds and he’ll be completely still.
The echo of the gunshot drags through the rafters, bouncing off steel and concrete. Then another sound joins it—slow, deliberate clapping that echoes with theatrical precision.
I stand slowly, turning to face the source. My hand drifts instinctively toward the gun tucked into my waistband, fingers itching.
Gilbert Kane walks out of the shadows like he’s taking a stage, like he’s the star of some fucked-up play and we’re all just extras.
He’s wearing a gray suit—expensive, tailored, not a wrinkle in sight. Clean shoes. And not a single drop of blood on him, despite the carnage surrounding us, despite the fact that he just executed a man without breaking stride. The gun in his hand still smokes, barrel pointed casually at the floor.
“Prideful,” he says, his voice low. He takes another step closer, studying me like I’m a specimen under glass. “Arrogant.Confident. Cocky.” A smirk touches his lips. “All the things a good soldier shouldn’t be.”
I straighten, wiping a streak of Marco’s blood from my cheek with my thumb. The motion is deliberate, unhurried. I make sure he sees me do it. “You’ve been keeping notes?”
“Oh, I’ve been keeping records.” Gilbert paces, circling me like a predator sizing up prey. Except I’m not prey—I never have been. “Let’s see... two dead in Crestview. One buried alive outside West Pointe. That poor kid you strung up under the overpass—what was his name? Ryder, wasn’t it?”
I don’t blink. Don’t react. Because giving him a reaction is giving him power, and I learned a long time ago that power is the only currency that matters.
Ryder. Yeah, I remember him. Remember the way he begged, promised he’d keep his mouth shut about the shipment he saw. I remember not believing him. I remember the sound his neck made when the rope went taut.
Gilbert tilts his head, watching my face for something he won’t find. “No remorse. Good. I’d hate to think Vincent wasted all that molding.”
Something in me snaps. Something that’s been coiled tight since I walked in here, since I smelled the blood, since I realized Vincent died without me getting my hands on him.
“Now, you’re going to do something for me.”
“He didn’t mold shit,” I say with a nonchalant shrug. “And I’m not anyone’s bitch. Not his. Not yours.”
Gilbert stops circling, turning to face me fully. There’s interest in his eyes now, curiosity mixed with something darker. “Is that so? You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
