Eduardo jolted awake. He sucked in oxygen greedily, as if his lungs had just been crushed under concrete. The icy cold of seawater vanished, replaced by the musty scent of old paper, cheap tobacco, and a faint trace of perfume smoke. He was not at the bottom of the sea. He was inside an enormous room, stark white and spotless, yet cluttered with wooden shelves crammed full of absurd antiques. There was a wall clock whose hands spun backward, bottles filled with pulsing light, even a mummified hand clutching a cigar. “At last, my useless grandson finally wakes up. I thought you planned to sleep there forever.” The voice was hoarse, rough, and painfully familiar. Eduardo turned sharply. Behind a rotten wooden cashier’s desk sat an old man in a shabby flannel shirt, thick dark sunglasses, and a crooked flat cap. He was calmly rolling tobacco with his calloused fingers. Eduardo frowned, squeezing his still foggy mind. “Grandpa? Grandpa Antonio? Weren’t you… weren’t yo

Eduardo spat on Rico’s corpse, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle, before rummaging through the man’s leather jacket. His hands were still shaking, whether from leftover adrenaline or from the remnants of a life forcibly dragged back from death. His fingers closed around a smartphone with a cracked screen and a Glock 17. “A Glock… not bad for a dead man like me,” Eduardo muttered hoarsely. He checked the magazine. Full. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his soaked pants, then turned his attention to the phone. The screen lit up, displaying a wallpaper photo of Rico with his arms wrapped around two women in a nightclub. Eduardo snorted in contempt and opened the recent call list. Only one name appeared repeatedly over the past hour: Boss Claude. But that was not what Eduardo was looking for. With a thumb that smeared blood across the glass, he typed a number he knew by heart. His home number. Emily’s number. Tut… Tut… Tut… Each ring felt lik

The crack of Marco’s broken bones still echoed through the living room, which now resembled a slaughterhouse more than a home. Eduardo stood rigid, breathing heavily, staring at Marco’s body lying unconscious from the overwhelming pain. The pistol in his hand felt hot, as if it, too, thirsted for the blood that had been spilled. [WARNING: ADRENALINE OVERDRIVE WILL END IN 120 SECONDS.] [SIDE EFFECTS: SEVERE NEURAL FATIGUE AND RANDOM MEMORY EXTRACTION.] “Shut up, you damn System,” Eduardo hissed. He walked toward the bedroom door where Emily and Chloe were hiding. His blood-soaked hand hesitated before touching the doorknob. He could hear muffled sobs from inside. “Emily… it’s me,” Eduardo said hoarsely. The door opened slightly. Emily peeked out with swollen eyes. The moment she saw Eduardo’s pale, blood-smeared face, she burst out of the room and threw herself into his arms, clinging to him with what little strength she had left. “Eduardo! Oh God, you’r

The SUV’s worn tires screamed as Eduardo wrenched the steering wheel, forcing the vehicle onto a muddy dirt path. Rain poured down relentlessly, as if the sky itself wanted to drown this city of sins. Inside the car, the atmosphere felt colder than the air outside. “Edu, slow down! You’re going to get us killed!” Emily shouted, clutching the handle above the door. Eduardo ignored her. His eyes were locked on the trembling rearview mirror. He had just seen the flash of police lights at a major intersection. They were looking for this car, a stolen vehicle already wrecked and soaked in blood. “We need to change vehicles,” Eduardo muttered. His voice was flat, emotionless, like a machine processing data. “How are we supposed to do that? We don’t have any money, Edu! We didn’t even pack enough clothes for Chloe!” Emily’s voice edged toward hysteria. She glanced back at their daughter, who was asleep from exhaustion, though her body jolted every time the car hit a potho

Eduardo stood in front of the motel door, its paint peeling and flaking, staring at the loose change left in his palm. There were only a few coins and one crumpled ten dollar bill. Enough to buy two pieces of cheap bread, not enough to pay for his family’s shattered dignity. He placed the money on the small table beside the bed, right next to Emily’s limp hand as she slept. Eduardo did not leave a note. A ghost left no messages. “I’m going to get breakfast,” he whispered softly, more to himself than to Emily, who might have been trapped in another nightmare. Eduardo stepped out of the room, closing the door so gently that not even a click was heard, a new habit formed since the Shadow Step system had taken root in his body. He walked toward the stolen sedan parked beneath a dark, leafy tree. Once in the driver’s seat, Eduardo checked his weapon. Rico’s Glock 17. “Two bullets,” he muttered, staring at the nearly empty magazine. “One for the lock, one for the sur