Smoke swirled through the shattered remains of the compound, thick enough to sting Adrian’s eyes. His heartbeat was still hammering from the blast—too loud, too fast—but the moment he heard the crunch of boots approaching, everything inside him went still.Survival over panic. Instinct over memory.Three men in black tactical gear moved between the flaming debris. Their rifles swept in slow, precise arcs.“Clear sector three,” one hissed into his comm. “Target might still be alive.”Target.Adrian pressed his back against a broken concrete pillar, breathing through his teeth. He didn’t know who they were, but every bone in his body screamed they weren’t here to rescue anyone.He heard a second voice—sharper, impatient.“Orders are confirmed. Kill on sight. The boss says he caused the explosion.”Adrian’s stomach twisted. Caused it? Me?Another explosion of memory-less void hit him—he didn’t even know what happened ten minutes ago. But blaming him? That meant someone wanted him erased.

The night air hit Adrian like a blade.Cold, sharp, clean—so different from the choking smoke he had escaped minutes earlier. He climbed out of the roof vent and rolled onto the gravel-covered rooftop, lungs heaving. Below him, flames still roared through the compound, licking the sky in angry orange tongues.The city around him was alive—sirens, distant honking, streetlights flickering through the haze—but here, on this rooftop, it felt like another world. A battlefield suspended above everything.Then he felt it.Before the sound.Before the movement.Before the intent even became real.A pressure at the edge of his awareness—like a cold fingertip touching the back of his neck. Not physical, but undeniable.Someone was aiming at him.Adrian didn’t see the sniper. Didn’t hear him. Didn’t even know where to look.But his body moved anyway.He dropped low—just as a suppressed bullet hissed past his head and punched through the rooftop wall behind him. Gravel burst into the air.A norma

The rain started without warning—thin at first, then pounding, drowning out the sirens in the distance. Adrian staggered into the narrow alley, one hand gripping his ribs where the earlier fall had bruised bone. His clothes were torn, blackened from the explosion, and streaked with dried blood that wasn’t all his.The city’s neon lights reflected in puddles like jagged color shards. The alley smelled of rust, wet garbage, and something metallic… something fresh.Blood.His instincts flared.Someone was here.Someone was watching.He didn’t remember being this sensitive, but now every sound stretched long and sharp in his mind—the drip of rain from metal pipes, the hum of a faulty alley lamp, the distant thrum of helicopter blades.His heart beat once.Twice.Footsteps. Behind him.Adrian turned too late.A figure rushed him from the shadows, swinging a metal pipe toward his skull. Adrian ducked, the pipe cutting the air where his head had been. He grabbed the attacker’s wrist, twisted

The Iron Bridge rose from the mist like a skeleton of a forgotten titan—rusted beams curving over a black river, bolts missing, planks rotting, metal groaning each time the wind touched it. No one used it anymore. Not even criminals. It was a dead landmark in a dying part of the city.Which made it perfect for someone desperate.Someone like Adrian Kelevra.His boots sank into wet mud as he approached the bridge’s entrance. The rain—cold and thin—draped the night in silver, dripping down his bruised face and soaking through his torn clothes. He hadn’t slept in two days. He hadn’t eaten in one.Every breath burned his ribs.Every step felt like dragging broken glass.But he kept moving.He had to.Behind him, somewhere in the maze of alleys and docks, the city pulsed with violence. Gangs whispered his name. Syndicates sent scouts to hunt him. Mercenaries had already taken shots at him. Even the homeless who once nodded respectfully now hid their faces whenever he passed.The whole city

The Old Harbor’s night winds were knives—thin, slicing, merciless. Adrian moved through it like a phantom, wrapping his torn jacket tightly around himself. His ribs still ached from the river's brutal currents, and his lungs burned with every breath. But pain wasn’t his biggest enemy tonight.Exhaustion was.Behind him, the city felt alive—breathing, watching, whispering for his death.A faint siren wailed in the distance. Somewhere, gunshots echoed, followed by the hurried engine of a motorcycle. The whole city had become a hunting ground.And he was the prize.Adrian kept walking until he reached the edge of East Wharf—a forgotten part of the district, where rusted ships leaned like dying beasts and warehouses sagged like broken ribs. One building stood apart from the others: an old two-story structure with boarded-up windows and a crooked steel door.The safehouse.The last place he could go.The only place he thought he could trust.The place he once protected with his life.He kn