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2’ VIKTOR KUZNETSOV

VIKTOR KUZNETSOV'S POV

When an assassin’s bullet grazes your ear, you don’t have time to panic. You have five seconds—five excruciating, heart-pounding seconds—to find the shooter before the next shot finds you. And that one won’t miss.

Blood trickled down my neck, soaking into the front of my plaid shirt, but I couldn’t afford to feel the sting. My eyes darted frantically, scanning the rain-slicked rooftops for the faintest sign—a glint of steel, the flicker of movement. Neon lights reflected off the wet streets in dizzying swirls of color, warping the world around me. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a ticking clock.

Five seconds to live.

Five...

Four...

I counted down in my head, my pulse racing as my eyes swept across the rooftops, searching for the assassin’s next move. Around me, people scattered, diving for cover, their instincts sharp in a city where one gunshot often meant more to follow. Montmartre wasn’t new to violence, and everyone knew a single shot was rarely the end—it was the beginning of a gunfight.

I had thought I could blend in, that my cover was strong enough to give me months of safety in Paris. But now, with blood trickling down my neck and a killer somewhere watching me, I realized how foolish that hope had been. Clark Kent could pull off being Superman with nothing but a pair of glasses. Meanwhile, I’d donned a fake identity, a ridiculous goatee, and dyed hair, yet here I was, in the crosshairs—my disguise flimsy.

Three...

My breath came in ragged gasps as I felt for the pistol in my pocket, my fingers brushing the cold metal. Then I saw it—a flash, faint but unmistakable—on the rooftop of the an abandoned complex building.

The killer was a dead man walking.

I bolted toward the building, splashing through the rain-slicked streets. My breath came in short, jagged bursts, but my mind remained laser-focused on the task ahead. Reaching the alley, I scanned the fire escape—my quickest way up. Gripping the cold metal, I heaved myself upward, my boots slamming against the rungs as I ascended floor by floor, faster than I thought possible.

By the time I reached the rooftop, my breath was a mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion. The rain beat down harder now, turning the city into a blur of lights and wet stone beneath me. I expected to see him, the assassin, ready for his next move. But instead, I caught sight of his shadow in motion—he was running for the edge, his steps very fast.

My heart lurched.

Before I could shout, he leapt—right off the two-story building, disappearing over the edge like a ghost. His gun remained there, on the floor. Without a second thought, I sprinted after him, launching myself into the air, heart hammering as I hurtled through the downpour. I landed hard, knees buckling on impact, but I rolled with the fall, momentum carrying me forward.

The assassin was fast—alarmingly so—but I wasn’t far behind. The boy—because now I could see, even through the blur of rain and chaos, that he was young—dodged through narrow alleys, vaulting over crates, slipping through the labyrinth of Montmartre as if he’d memorized every turn. He probably had. I pushed myself harder, my lungs burning, feet pounding against the cobblestones as I closed the distance.

We turned a corner, the boy slipping in the rain just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his pale face. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, his wet hair sticking to his forehead. But there was no hesitation in his movements, no sign of fear—only deadly determination.

I was gaining on him, the gap between us shrinking with every second. His small frame darted into a side street, feet skidding on the slick pavement.

Two more steps and I’d have him.

I lunged forward, closing the final gap between us. My hand shot out, grabbing the back of his soaked jacket. With a sharp yank, I pulled him off balance, sending him sprawling onto the wet pavement. He scrambled to get up, but I was on him in an instant. I slammed him against the cold stone wall of the alley, my breath ragged, chest heaving with fury and adrenaline.

Without thinking, my fists flew.

One punch after another, I landed blows across his pale face, the rain mixing with the blood that started pouring from his nose, his lips splitting under the impact. His body jerked with each hit, but he didn’t fight back—just let it happen, absorbing the violence in stunned silence. His expression was blank, eerily calm, even as the life was being pummeled out of him.

“Who sent you?” I growled, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him harder against the wall, shaking him. “Who the hell sent you?!”

He didn’t answer.

My knuckles were raw now, bruised and slick with his blood, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The anger coursing through me was blinding, a red haze. The boy’s face was a mess, his eyes barely open, blood dripping down his chin.

I shoved him to the ground, crouching over him, my hand shaking as I reached for the gun tucked inside my jacket. The cold metal felt like salvation. My chest burned with rage at his silence. He wasn’t going to talk, but I didn’t need words anymore.

I pressed the barrel against his forehead, his bloodied face reflecting my rage. “Last chance. Who sent you?” My voice was cold, lethal, the rain still pounding around us, muffling the distant sounds of the city.

And then, just as I was about to pull the trigger, the boy did something I didn’t expect.

He cried.

It wasn’t a sob or a wail—just silent, helpless tears streaming down his face. His body trembled beneath me, not in fear of death but in something deeper. He was broken, terrified, his lips quivering as the blood mixed with his tears.

“I didn’t want to do it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible through his swollen lips. “Please… they’ll kill me if I don’t… I had no choice.”

I froze. My finger hovered over the trigger, but I couldn’t pull it. His tears hit me harder than the punches I’d thrown.

Just as my finger tightened on the trigger, the click of the gun echoed sharply in the narrow alleyway. The boy shut his eyes tight, bracing for the bullet.

But before I could pull the final shot, a voice pierced through the rain, a strangled scream that seemed to come from nowhere. “Stop!”

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