John did not raise his voice to match hers.

He pulled the chair from beneath the folding table and sat down.

"It means your life is no longer safe" He folded his hands on his knee. "If you walk back into your old life, you’ll be dead in an hour.

Samantha forced herself to speak.

"If he really wanted to protect me, then he has enough power to do it. Don’t tell me he wants to use my death as an excuse to gain sympathy for the election?"

John’s face remained neutral, revealing nothing to her.

"Like I said, I don’t know, and I don’t care about your family business. Just follow my lead if you want to stay alive."

"And if I don’t?"

"Then I’ll leave you here, and you’ll deal with whoever finds you first."

He didn’t threaten. He didn’t warn. He simply described what would happen.

Samantha swallowed. "What exactly is your job?"

"Keeping you alive until your father says otherwise."

She leaned back against the headboard. The motion pulled at her wound, and she pressed her hand against it without thinking.

John noticed. He crossed the room, opened the kit again, and set a small sealed packet on the edge of the bed without a word.

"Painkiller. Take it with water. The bottle is on the table beside you."

He moved back to the table without waiting to see if she followed his instructions.

Samantha looked at the packet. Then at the bottle.

Then she took the painkiller.

"Where are we?" she asked, after drinking it.

"Outer district. Industrial block. No residents nearby."

"How do you know?"

"Because I chose this place."

She had more questions. She could feel them stacking behind her teeth.

But something about the rhythm of his answers made her realize that pushing would only get her more of the same.

"Get some rest," He picked up the kit and moved toward the door. "We move at dawn."

"Move where?"

He stopped with his hand on the door frame.

"Somewhere your father prepared. I’ll explain what you need to know when you need to know it."

"You’re not exactly easy to talk to," she complained.

"No." He stepped out. "I’m not."

The door closed behind him without a sound.

Samantha sat alone in the yellow light.

The ceiling stared back at her.

She pressed two fingers against her bandaged side and breathed through the pain.

.

.

.

Outside, a corridor stretched toward the building far end.

John stood at the window, looking out at the empty road below.

He already swept the perimeter twice.

Nothing moved. No vehicles. No foot traffic. No lights from neighboring blocks.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a phone and typed four words.

"She’s awake. Stable."

The reply came back in under a minute.

(Keep her there. Don’t let her make contact with anyone.)

He read it once and replied.

"Don’t forget. This is my last job. After this, you’ll let me out?"

(Yes, John.)

He pocketed the phone and returned to the window.

His reflection looked back at him from the glass — the same face, the same flat expression, the same eyes that had stopped carrying anything unnecessary a long time ago.

A lot of things were moving tonight.

He could feel it, the way veteran soldiers feel a shift in temperature before the fighting starts.

’I need to prepare.’ he moved to the next room.

It was smaller than Samantha’s. No bed. No table. Just bare walls and a thin layer of dust on the floor that his footsteps disrupted.

Two cases sat against the wall.

He crouched in front of the smaller one and pressed his thumb against the latch.

It opened without resistance.

Inside, set into cut foam, was a desert eagle.

He picked it up.

The weight was wrong for its size — heavier than it looked, denser.

Caressing it, he felt the frame smooth and dark under his touch, faint lines running through it like grain in hardwood.

The magazine beside it held white-tipped rounds.

He pressed one out with his thumb, held it for a second, then seated it back and slid the magazine home until it locked.

The click was clean. Solid.

He set it down and looked at the row of spare magazines lined up in the foam beside it.

Red tip. Green tip. Black tip. Blue tip. White tip.

Each one loaded for a different outcome.

Each one chosen before he even knew what this job would look like, because preparation was not just about predicting the exact problem — it was about making sure no problem arrived without an answer.

He closed the small case and moved to the larger one.

The latches were stiffer. He worked them open with both hands and lifted the lid.

The sniper sat in three sections, the pieces nested into their own shaped recesses in the foam.

Same material as the pistol. Same dark finish.

He assembled it by the window.

Stock first. Then the receiver. Then the barrel, which he rotated until the thread seated and the resistance told him it was done.

The scope went on last.

He pressed his eye to it and swept the window once — road, open ground, the far building, the gap between them.

Clean sight lines. Good elevation. Exactly what he had chosen this room for.

John set the rifle on its bipod at the window’s lower edge, angled toward the main approach road.

Time slipped by, and he hoped things would stay peaceful. Unfortunately, things rarely go that way.

’An enemy?’ he muttered, adjusting his sight.

Over one kilometer away, a figure on a big bike parked his vehicle and leaned against a wall.

’If it’s from the defense force, they wouldn’t just send one. Maybe it’s a local biker... but why do I feel restless just looking at him?’

He didn’t engage.

If there was one thing he always follow, it was his gut. It saved him many times, and right now it told him not to act on impulse.

’Who are you...’ his thoughts trailed off.

He waited patiently, watching his target pace around .

Soon, the figure moved inside a warehouse with a busted roof.

Others would have panicked and pulled the trigger, but such an obstacle was not a concern to him.

His eyes flashed, and suddenly his surroundings turned dark before a single color began bleeding through, like a photo being revealed at high speed.

The sniper, the floor, and the walls were outlined only by faint green lines.

This was his innate talent, "Matrix Vision"

Next, he focused fully on the abandoned warehouse and saw straight through it.

He traced and adjusted his aim until his target sat down.

John took a bullet with a black tip. He hesitated first because it was one of his few special ones, but his instinct told him he could not afford to save it.

He settled back into position, cheek against the stock, eye to the scope.

The crosshair found his target without effort.

One thousand meter. Stationary target. No wind worth accounting for. The elevation was already dialed from when he first set the rifle up.

John slowed his breathing.

His heartbeat dropped with it, and his cognitive abilities intensified. Everything slowed to a snail’s pace.

click.

***

***

***

Authors Note:

Hi, hope you’re enjoying the story so far.

Why three Chapters today and not two? I was busy stacking up privilege Chapters over the past few days, so this is me catching up.

I will be posting three Chapters daily until May 6.