The lights snapped back on.
Three figures stood in the room.
It felt like they hadn't come through the door. They hadn't made a sound.
But they were there now, standing between them and the exit.
Three masked assassins.
No guns in their hands—just sleek, deadly melee weapons. One gripped a dagger, the curved blade shining the light. Another held a short, black baton. The third, empty-handed, stood impressively still, like a statue waiting to move.
Anton reacted first. His gun was up, finger on the trigger—
But the closest assassin lunged, closing the distance with unreal speed.
Anton barely had time to shift before the baton came down. He dodged, twisting away, but the assassin kept moving, smooth and relentless, like a fucking ghost.
The second one struck from the side. Anton blocked with his forearm, gritting his teeth at the impact, then countered—slamming the butt of his gun into the assassin's ribs. A solid hit. Should've knocked the wind out of him.
It didn't.
