Shinda’s breath came in ragged, shallow hitches. The scent of ozone and copper—blood and spent gunpowder—clung to the humid airport air. He pressed his back against the cold concrete pillar, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every time he shifted even an inch, a bullet would kiss the concrete, sending a spray of stone dust into his hair."Stay down!" he stared at his wife his gaze shaking. She was huddled in a ball, her arms wrapped so tightly around their daughter that the girl’s face was buried in her mother’s chest.Shinda’s eyes scanned the rafters, the glass walkways, and the distant shadows of the parking garage. He was a man who lived in the dark, a professional who knew every trick in the book, yet this shooter was playing him like a beginner. The shots weren't coming from where they should. The angles were impossible.Suddenly, a flash of light caught his eye—a reflection from a scope high up in the ventilation ducts near the north terminal."There," h

The door gently opened, and Shinda’s wife was standing in front of it. Her face was mixed with confusion and desperation; she was too stunned to ever imagine what had happened the other day, and now her husband was acting weird. Not only that, he wasn't even around her, and he acted so busy lately."I'm so very confused right now. Why the hell is he looking so stressed? And even with that, he doesn't want me to take him to the hospital. The stress he's feeling right now, I'm sure it isn't from just his injuries; he must be hiding something from me."These words sounded in her mind. She was standing at the front of the bedroom, and Shinda was on the bed, his wrist wrapped with a bandage. His wife had been the one taking care of his injuries over the days, and she had thought of calling the doctor, but Shinda refused, stating that doing so would worsen things. With this, she understood, aligning with the thought of what had happened the other day, when he was almost killed.Within the m