Before going to bed the previous night, Steven had done his research on guns, their handling, and the things he could possibly do in a combat situation.

He had also researched the parts of the body to shoot to incapacitate a person without killing them. At least not outright.

He had made the research but had not expected to use the knowledge so perfectly. His shots had been shockingly accurate and he had not felt much of the recoil, especially for someone who had never held a gun in his life before.

He had, of course, missed his exact target on the shoulder, which had been the humerus bone.

He looked at the three men on the floor — two holding their knees that were shot and bleeding badly, and the last of them lying on the floor, unmoving in his own pool of blood, screaming from the immense pain coursing through his body, unable to do anything about it as his hands were completely unresponsive.

The sight of blood and the fact that he had shot these men sent a chill down his spine, but he quickly composed himself.

He also remembered the fact that his life was at risk and that it was kill or be killed.

Steven looked at the men and saw the leader trying to reach for his gun. Without hesitation, he shot him in the leg.

"Ahhh!!!" The man screamed.

Steven released Drew, pushed him forward, and shot him in his butt cheek.

"You f*cking bastard! You shot me!" Drew screamed in pain, clutching his wounded cheek.

"I know. How does it feel to take a bullet there? It hurts, right?" Steven asked. "Unfortunately, I’m not done with you yet."

He walked to Drew’s men on the floor, picked up their guns, and searched each of them for any hidden weapons, not particularly concerned about the fact that they were bleeding out on the floor around him.

After searching every possible place they could have concealed anything, down to their shoes, Steven sighed in relief when he found nothing.

They had only the handguns they had been holding. He disassembled all three in seconds. When he was done, he scattered the individual parts randomly across the room.

He stood up and walked toward Drew, who was clutching his wound and limping toward the door.

Steven reached him, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him back to the middle of the room.

Just as they reached the centre, Steven heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching from outside.

He threw Drew down and turned toward the door, moving quickly into the dark side of the room to conceal himself.

The door opened a moment later and six men walked in.

Steven recognised them from their builds.

He saw the brief look of shock that crossed their faces as they took in the scene. He immediately took advantage of that lapse and shot at each of them in rapid succession.

They collapsed to the floor, some screaming in pain.

Steven came out of the shadow and walked slowly toward them, his gun still trained on the group for any sudden movement.

When he reached them, he checked where each bullet had landed. The shots had struck different parts of their bodies — legs, shoulders, chest.

Two of them had blood pooling at their mouths, making uneven, wet, and disturbing sounds as they tried to inhale, only to end up making choking motions.

Steven’s eyes went cold and his body stiffened momentarily. He understood what was happening. The two men in front of him were dying, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He watched them continue making the same choking motion for a few more seconds before they finally went limp and their eyes glazed over.

Steven closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and steadied himself. Then he bent down and closed the glazed eyes of the two men.

He picked up the remaining guns and disassembled them, keeping only one magazine. He searched the fallen men for hidden weapons and found none.

He stood up, closed the door, and walked back to Drew, who was still groaning in pain and clutching his wound.

Steven reached him, lowered himself to Drew’s level, and pressed the gun against his chest.

"What is really your problem? Why do you act like you’re sick in the head? Or maybe you are. You’ve had things go your way since you were young, to the point that you can’t accept a single loss. And that’s exactly how we ended up here. That’s genuinely messed up," Steven said, sounding less angry than exhausted.

Drew could not help but laugh at that.

"What’s my problem? You’re my problem. You came out of nowhere and took the woman I want, then humiliated me. Not once but twice. I suffered humiliation from a nobody like you!" Drew growled.

"You’re still on this nobody nonsense? I suppose you won’t change, even in your grave."

"You plan to kill me? Do you know who my father is exactly? He is not someone you can trifle with. You’re already in a serious situation for shooting me. The best thing you can do to save yourself from a painful death is to let me go this instant," Drew said, his smug smile returning despite everything.

Steven could not help but chuckle. He felt, not for the first time, as though he were looking at a five-year-old boy rather than a grown man.

"When you mention your father not being someone to trifle with, were you referring to his role as financier and laundryman for a drug cartel?" He asked, his expression one of mild amusement.

Drew’s frown deepened slightly, the surprise visible on his face.

"Since you know, then release me. Quickly," he said.

He had wanted to make a show of his father’s cartel connection — exaggerate it where necessary, weaponise the fear of it — and use that to walk out of this room. But Steven’s awareness of everything, combined with everything that had already happened, told him he had severely miscalculated. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

There was still hope, he told himself. Steven had not killed him yet. Perhaps Steven was inwardly afraid of crossing that line.

"Why would I let you go so you can tell your father, who can then come after me with his cartel connections? The men on this floor are likely cartel members themselves. Tell me honestly — would you let you go?" Steven asked.

Drew’s face went pale. He thought of begging, but before the words could form, Steven stood up and raised the gun.

"We have talked long enough, Drew. I’m genuinely tired of it." He paused for a moment. "I do hope that in your next life, you’ll be better."

He shot Drew in the head, and the room fell silent.

Steven turned away from Drew’s body and walked back through the room, stepping past the incapacitated and bleeding men without breaking stride.

He reached the last group near the door and crouched beside the man he had seen take his car.

"Where is my car?" he asked.

"At the back of the building," the man said, his voice hollow with fear.

"Good. Thank you," Steven said, with a genuinely grateful nod.

He stood, walked to the door, and broke the interior handle. He stepped out, pulled the door closed behind him, and broke the exterior handle as well.

He moved through the building until he found his way to the back, and he saw the Porsche, looking exactly as he had left it.

"There you are, baby."

He got in, took out his phone, and exhaled slowly. Then he called Hargreaves.

The call was answered immediately.

"Good morning, Mr. Craig," Hargreaves said.

"Hargreaves, I need your help," Steven said, his voice hoarse.

"What is it, Mr. Craig?" Hargreaves asked in a solemn tone.