The door shifts.
Barely an inch.
Enough.
Violence in the Dark
The door gives.
Six inches of space.Six inches of stupid fucking confidence.
That’s all I need to get in.
The first man slides through the gap, half-turned, gun low, already cataloging this as easy work.
I rush in with no time to waste, I lunge forward on him.
I hook my fist in his collar and slam his skull into the steel frame hard enough to send the impact vibrating up my bones.
Bone breaks.
Blood spits across the metal—and onto my face—painting the threshold in a wet, ugly arc.
Pia gasps small and strangled—
—but she doesn’t scream.
The second man charges without a word.
Knife first.
Of course.
The world narrows to a single sharp point.
The blade drives toward my ribs. I pivot, catching his wrist in both hands. Steel whispers over fabric, misses skin by a breath.
He grunts, trying to power through.
I’m already moving.
Twist.Drop my weight.Let leverage eat muscle alive.
His wrist pops sideways with a wet, unforgivable sound.
He howls.
The knife slaps the floor and skids beneath Pia’s bare foot.
I don’t give him time to think about reaching it.
My knee slams between his legs hard enough to steal his voice. He folds in on himself, breath choking out in a busted gasp.
My forearm catches his throat, and I drive him backward into the door, using the vault like a second weapon.
Cartilage grinds.
Air vanishes.
