“Who do you answer to?” The question stayed in the air between them. Valentine’s breathing was uneven. His leg trembled where the knife was still buried. Sweat rolled down the side of his face and gathered at his jaw before dripping to the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “I don’t answer to anyone. I work independently. If you want my client list, that’s impossible. They’re anonymous. That’s how it works.” Johnny didn’t blink. From the outside, he looked calm. Still. Almost bored. Inside, his thoughts were sharp. Independent. No one in that business was independent. Men like Valentine didn’t build networks that large alone. They didn’t get protection that strong alone. They didn’t recover that fast after losing a base unless someone above them allowed it. Valentine wasn’t the disease. He was a symptom. If Johnny cut him out, someone else would take his place within weeks. Maybe days. No. He needed the head. And the man

Johnny stood frozen for one heartbeat. Then two. The sound of the shot still rang in his ears. Glass dust floated slowly through the air. Valentine’s body hung forward in the chair, head dropped, blood sliding down the wall behind him. Too late. Johnny moved. He reached the window first, stepping over broken glass. Across the street, three buildings down, rooftop level. There. He saw the faint movement of a figure lowering a rifle. Calm. Professional. The shooter didn’t rush. Didn’t scramble. No panic. Just a smooth shift backward, like this was routine. They knew exactly what they were doing. Johnny narrowed his eyes. The sniper stepped back, already moving away from the edge. Johnny focused harder using his super senses – hearing [Super Senses – Hearing Activated] His breathing slowed. The world sharpened. He tracked the movement through the rooftop door. Down the stairwell. Controlled steps. No wasted motion. This wasn’t random. This was planned. They had known e

The room felt smaller the moment the sniper stepped forward. Wind pushed through the shattered windows behind him, carrying dust and the distant echo of traffic far below. The building creaked from all the damage Johnny had caused getting here. They were alone. No civilians. No witnesses. Just broken walls and unfinished business. The sniper raised the pistol. Johnny moved first. Bang. The muzzle flashed bright orange. Johnny twisted sideways. The first bullet sliced past his ribs. Bang. The second round slammed into his upper arm. Pain burst through him like fire under the skin. He didn’t slow down. He charged. The sniper fired again. Bang. This one hit his shoulder. The impact spun him slightly—but he kept pushing forward, teeth gritted, ignoring the burn as flesh already began stitching itself back together. [Instant Health Restoration Activated] Johnny grabbed a metal stool from beside the wall and hurled it. The sniper shot it mid-air. The stool exploded int

Johnny did not remember jumping the last three steps of the staircase. One moment he was at the broken window, wind still hitting his face, the image of a falling body burned into his mind. The next moment he was running. The stairwell smelled of concrete dust and chaos recedes. His boots hit each step too hard. The sound echoed in the narrow space. He didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. “Margaret,” he muttered under his breath. “Stupid. Stupid.” He had left her there. After everything that just happened—after a man cut off his hand and chose death instead of talking—he had left her in a crowded hall where anyone could walk in, smile, and put a gun under a table. His pulse was still uneven from the pain. Even though his hand was back, even though it moved and looked normal, there was still that strange memory inside his nerves. A ghost feeling. Like something important had once been taken. He pushed through the building’s exit and stepped into the open air. Valentine’s car was

The city lights moved past the tinted windows in long, blurred lines. Johnny sat on the left side of the back seat, his elbow resting against the door, his fingers lightly touching the glass. The driver kept both hands on the steering wheel, quiet, focused. The hum of the engine was smooth and controlled, nothing like the violent speed he had driven earlier. Margaret sat beside him. She had taken off her heels and tucked her legs slightly to the side. The blue dress hugged her curves like a second skin, shimmered faintly each time they passed under a streetlight. Her hair had loosened more now, falling around her shoulders in soft waves, , brushing against her full chest with every breath. She kept stealing glances at him, her eyes lingering on his strong jaw, then dipping lower to his broad chest straining his shirt. He had not said much since they left the venue. His jaw was tight. His eyes were distant. Even in the soft interior lighting of the car, she could see the tensi