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3' BANG

VIKTOR KUZNETSOV'S POV

I turned around, the gun pressed so hard against the boy’s skull I could feel him trembling beneath it, his fear radiating off him like a fever. The rain was pounding, drowning out everything but my own breathing, and then—I saw her.

A girl. Petite, soaked to the bone, standing at the edge of the alley. Her figure was shrouded by the downpour, her dark hair clinging to her face, her clothes sticking to her like a second skin. In one hand, she clutched a pair of cowboy boots, the other held an umbrella. Not just any umbrella—one with a bright, floral print. The kind a little girl might carry to school on a sunny day. It didn’t belong here, not in this alley, not in this storm, not with the blood about to be spilled.

Her eyes—wide and terrified—locked onto mine. I could see her chest heaving with ragged breaths, her lips trembling. She was scared out of her mind, and yet… she didn’t move.

"Don’t you dare," she whispered, though the fear made her voice waver. She raised the umbrella as if it was a sword, her grip so tight her knuckles had gone white. “If you shoot him, I swear I’ll—” She hesitated and then. “I’ll knock you out cold!”

I stared at her, the absurdity of her threat catching me off guard. This tiny girl, barefoot in the rain, soaked and shaking, standing there with nothing but a ridiculous umbrella to defend herself. And she was threatening me?

The boy beneath me whimpered again, the cold barrel of the gun pressed into his skin. His body was limp, beaten, but his eyes—pleading, terrified—flicked to the girl. She was his last hope. He had grazed me with a bullet, a hair’s width from death. I should have killed him already. I wanted to. My finger twitched on the trigger, the weight of the gun almost comforting as I prepared to end it, to end him.

I smirked, feeling the dark satisfaction coil tighter inside me. The rain couldn’t wash away the power I felt, the control I had over this kid’s life, over both of them. His fear was tangible, feeding something primal inside me, but hers… hers was different. She was terrified—every part of her screamed it. But she was also desperate, clutching at the last sliver of hope she had, standing there as if her stupid umbrella could stop me.

“You think that’s gonna stop me?” I said, my voice low, menacing, the gun pressing harder against the boy’s skull, enjoying the way he flinched. The sight of him, the taste of control—it felt good.

Too good.

Her eyes flickered with terror, her body trembling like a leaf in the wind, but she didn’t back down. "Try me," she spat, her voice cracking with desperation.

I tilted my head, studying her. I could see her fear—it was written all over her pale face, in the way her wet hair stuck to her cheeks, in the way her chest rose and fell too fast, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. She wasn’t just scared. She was petrified. And I liked it.

I leaned in closer to the boy, feeling his pulse racing beneath the gun barrel. His sweat mixed with the rain, his body practically shaking with terror. “You hear that?” I sneered. “Your girl thinks she can stop me.” The boy’s breath hitched, and I pressed the gun harder, savoring the way he squirmed beneath me. He was mine.

But her—she was different. I looked up at her again, at the fear twisting her features, the way her green eyes shimmered with tears she was fighting to hold back. Something was intoxicating about it. She knew what I could do. She knew how easily I could end him, and still, she was standing there. Still, she was defying me.

I nudged my head toward her, keeping the gun on the boy but giving her a slow, dark grin. “You really think you can save him?” My voice dropped lower, colder. “What’s stopping me from pulling this trigger and painting the alley with his brains?”

Her eyes widened, a tear spilling down her cheek. She was barely holding it together. I could see her hands shaking, the umbrella wobbling slightly in her grip. I could hear the tiny gasps she made, trying to control her breathing, trying not to break down completely.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion now. “Please, just let him go.”

I felt the power surging through me, a sick thrill as I watched her crumble. She was scared, so scared, and I could taste it in the air, feel it buzzing through me like a drug. Her fear made my pulse quicken, made me feel invincible. I liked the way her eyes flicked between the gun and the boy, how every second of her life hinged on what I would do next.

“I could blow his head off right now,” I murmured, more to myself than to her. My finger itched on the trigger. Her lips parted in a silent plea, and I could see it—her mind racing, trying to figure out what to do, how to save him, how to make me stop.

The boy whimpered beneath me again, his swollen, bleeding face pressing into the wet pavement, but I barely noticed him anymore. It was all about her now. Her fear was sweeter than his—raw, unfiltered. I could almost taste it. I could almost—

BANG.

A gunshot shattered the air, deafening, the sound ricocheting off the alley walls like a bomb.

Instinct took over. I dropped to the ground, rolling to the side, the taste of blood and rain filling my mouth as I hit the pavement. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, adrenaline surging, my finger twitching on the trigger—but I hadn’t fired. I gripped my gun tighter, the cold pavement biting into my palms, rain and blood mixing beneath me.

The shot wasn’t mine.

I scrambled to my feet, my mind racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The boy was still, eerily still. His head had snapped back, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at the sky, lifeless. His skull—blown apart, fragments of bone and brain splattered across the ground, the walls were bloody, mixing with the rain, washing down the alley in cobbles of red.

I staggered back, horror pulsing through me, my ears ringing from the gunshot. My heart raced, blood roaring in my veins as I scanned the alley, desperate to understand.

Who had fired?

I hadn’t pulled the trigger. I couldn’t have. But the boy was dead, his head a grotesque mess on the pavement. I whipped around, eyes darting through the rain, searching the shadows, the alley walls, every corner, every crevice.

“Who’s there?” I shouted, voice cracking with the panic clawing at my throat. My gun was still raised, still ready to fire, but I had no target. No idea where the shot had come from.

And the girl—the girl with the umbrella. She was gone.

I spun around, frantic, searching for her. She’d been right there, in front of me. But now? Nothing. No trace of her, no sound, no movement. She’d slipped away, disappeared into the storm like a ghost. My heart hammered against my ribcage, my mind racing. How had I missed her leaving? She couldn’t have just vanished.

And yet, she had.

I was alone.

The boy’s body lay at my feet, lifeless, his blood soaking into the ground. I should’ve felt victorious, satisfied even. But I didn’t. I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Hunted.

Something was wrong. I could feel it deep in my gut, a creeping unease that crawled up my spine, made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Whoever had fired that shot—whoever had killed the boy—was still out there. Watching me.

I glanced around again, every shadow now a threat, every flicker of movement a possible danger. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, but the silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on me like a heavy blanket. I wasn’t alone in this alley, not anymore.

Then, something glinted on the ground. A small, silver anklet, lying in the puddle where the girl had stood. I crouched down, picked it up between my fingers, turning it over in the dim light. It was delicate, fragile. Hers.

I pocketed it.

Before I could process the weight of it, my phone buzzed loudly in my pocket, the sound slicing through the tense silence. I ripped it out, my hand trembling slightly, and pressed it to my ear.

“Speak,” I barked, my voice harsher than I intended.

Adonis’s voice came through, strained, broken. “I got shot. But I caught the bitch. Moscow sent them.”

My breath hitched. “Moscow?”

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice ragged, pained. “It was an ambush. Alaric’s dead.”

The rain continued to fall softly around me, but my mind was already spiraling, racing ahead. The girl—she wasn’t just some random bystander. She wasn’t just a scared kid trying to save a friend.

She was involved.

And she couldn’t run forever.

I would find her. And when I did, she’d regret the day she ever tried to stand in my way.

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