The morning sun rose gently over the estate, casting golden rays that pierced through the half-drawn curtains of Scott’s bedroom. The warm light flickered across his face, shining directly into his eyes and gradually stirring him from slumber. He groaned softly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand before sitting up in bed.Still groggy, Scott swung his legs off the bed and stood. He moved towards the window with slow, deliberate steps, drawing the curtain slightly to the side for a clearer view of the sunlit estate beyond. Standing there for a few moments, he tilted his head side to side, cracking his neck softly as the early rays bathed his face. Thoughts began flooding his mind—serious thoughts, dangerous thoughts, lingering concerns from the night before.Moments later, he turned away and headed to the bathroom.Scott stepped under the shower, allowing the cold water to wash away the remnants of sleep clinging to his skin. The crisp sting of water jolted his senses to life.

Aunt Kelly walked down the grand staircase, her steps graceful and composed. She was dressed in a long black gown that flowed elegantly around her ankles, and a black hat sat atop her carefully styled hair. Her face was heavy with makeup—dark eyeliner accentuated her eyes, and her lips were painted a bold crimson. In her right hand, she carried a small designer handbag, its sleek black surface gleaming faintly under the hallway lights.She approached Scott and came to a halt just a few paces away from him.Scott gave her a subtle once-over, his gaze moving from her head to toe. His face remained unreadable, a calm mask betraying nothing.“Shall we?” Kelly asked, her voice soft and pleasant.“You’re ready. Let’s go,” Scott replied coolly. Then he turned to Sullivan, who was already rising from the couch. “Sullivan, gather the boys. We’re leaving immediately.”But just as Sullivan was about to exit the living room, Kelly quickly interjected.“Lorenzo, wait. I don’t think you should brin

Scott kept pacing back and forth in the restroom, his heart racing, sweat pouring down his face and soaking the collar of his black shirt. His breathing was shallow, his nerves coiled tight with tension.Suddenly, the door slammed open with a loud BANG, crashing against the tiled wall—and in stepped a towering man.He stood at least six feet tall, built like a professional bodybuilder, with bulging muscles that threatened to tear through his black combat attire. In his grasp was an MP5 submachine gun, its muzzle glinting under the restroom’s fluorescent light.Scott froze the second the man entered, his gaze locking on him like a hawk spotting its prey."The Baron wants you downstairs," the man growled, voice gruff and dangerous, his hands gripping the weapon tightly, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.“Baron? That’s strange,” Scott replied coolly. “I could’ve sworn I walked into a church... not a gang’s lair.”The man smirked, a mocking expression twisting his lips. “Seems you’re ye

"Bring down the fucking door!" one of Mohammed’s comrades bellowed audibly.Two towering, muscular men took several steps back from the door, bracing themselves, then charged forward with thunderous momentum, slamming their broad shoulders into it. The wooden frame groaned under the impact, but it held firm.Frustrated, they moved back again, this time with more aggression. They let out a unified battle cry and kicked the door together with all their might. Still, the door refused to break open.“Fuck it,” the same man cursed, raising his gun and pointing it directly at the handle. He fired a single, deafening shot.BANG!The bullet tore through the lock, mangling it completely. The door creaked open slightly. With a grunt of exertion, he kicked it open with a loud crash, and they all stormed into the bathroom, guns raised and fingers resting on the triggers.But the moment they stepped in, they froze simultaneously. Puzzled expressions swept across their faces.Scott was nowhere to b

Scott remained rooted in the dimly lit hallway, his hands tightly gripping the submachine gun, his knuckles pale with tension. His eyes were fixed on the corridor ahead, where the echo of approaching footsteps grew louder by the second. The stale air carried the sound—measured steps that multiplied rapidly into a chorus of threats.Then, emerging several meters away from him, a group of Arabic men turned the corner.“There he is!” one of them shouted, his voice sharp with urgency.Scott raised his weapon without hesitation. His fingers squeezed the trigger.The hallway erupted in deafening gunfire. Muzzle flashes lit the walls in bursts as a rain of bullets surged down the corridor. Men dropped like dominoes, blood splashing onto the tiled floor, turning it into a macabre canvas of death. Some screamed as they fell. Others were cut off mid-shout.Still, the survivors returned fire.Scott was forced to stop shooting and lower his head, ducking back behind cover as bullets tore past him