“Crawl.”
“Beg.”
“Endure.”
His gaze never left mine.
“Anything — as long as I can stay in your orbit.”
The words weren’t manipulation.
They were surrender wrapped in pride.
He paused and lowered his head.
Suddenly, I moved.
I crossed the distance in a single sharp stride, dropped low, and snatched the Glock from the marble floor where it had skittered earlier.
My grip locked around it instantly — muscle memory overriding pain.
I backed up three measured steps and raised the muzzle.
Center mass.
“Tell me something,” I said coldly. “There are no snipers around, right?”
His jaw tightened — not from fear, but from calculation.
“They’re on the roofs,” he answered evenly. “You can’t see them. But they’re there.”
“Liar.”
I raised the gun and aimed at his leg and shot.
He lifted his uninjured hand in a sharp, trained signal — palm out, fingers extended, a command flashed to invisible shooters.
The movement was reflex.
Military. Controlled.
Only after the signal did a low groan escape him.
He staggered sideways and slammed his shoulder into the wall to stay upright.
Blood poured faster now — thick crimson seeping through fabric and spreading across polished marble like an obscene signature.
His breathing shifted.
Strained.
Forced.
Sweat broke across his forehead as shock began creeping into his system.
“They’re holding fire,” he rasped through clenched teeth. “You saw the signal. But if you pull that trigger again — if I lose consciousness — protocol changes.”
I didn’t give him time to recover.
