“I love you,” she answers, cracked but sure.
That nearly breaks me.
I rest my forehead against hers for one last second—just one—then force myself to step back. If I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all.
I turn away.
I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I might not finish this.
And for her—I have to.
The drive to the warehouse is silent.
Snow falls in pale, drifting sheets, softening the city, hiding tracks. The road glistens under the headlights, empty and waiting. I don’t turn on the radio. I don’t need noise. My mind is sharp. Clean. Focused to a point that feels almost peaceful.
This is what I’m built for.
I park a block away and walk the rest.
The warehouse looms like a rotting animal—steel ribs, broken windows, too quiet for a place that wants to pretend it isn’t occupied. I step inside alone. Weapon holstered. Hands loose. Steady.
The door closes behind me with a hollow clang.
Shadows shift.
Boots scrape concrete. Men fan out, slow and confident, thinking they already own the outcome. I let them. Let them feel powerful for another breath.
Then Reed steps forward.
Samuel Reed. Same weary face. Same false sorrow carved into the lines around his mouth. He smirks when he sees me, like we’re sharing a private joke.
“Rusnak,” he says lightly. “You came alone. That’s disappointing. I thought you were smarter.”
My fury hits instantly—hot, blinding—but I leash it. Fury is useless without control.
“Who targeted my wife?” I ask.
The room stills.
Reed laughs. Actually laughs. A short, ugly sound that echoes off the walls.
“You really think you’re in a position to ask questions?” he says. “This was a trap. You walked straight into it because you couldn’t stand the idea of losing her. Ego does that. Confidence too.”
He tilts his head. Studies me.
“Your reputation is impressive,” he continues. “But tonight? It gets you killed.”
The lights die.
Gunfire erupts from the dark.
I move before the sound finishes traveling—muscle memory taking over, thought narrowing to angles and breath. I don’t spray. I don’t rush. I cut. A blade of motion through bodies that never see me coming. A man steps out of cover—throat crushed. Another turns—two shots, center mass, down. A third tries to flank—his shadow gives him away before his foot does.
Silent. Fast. Finished.
I don’t chase noise. I chase intent.