The entire organization felt like a colossal machine suddenly collapsing. One failure after another, plans exposed, enemies appearing at the exact moment, in the exact place, as if invisible eyes had been following every step he took. Critical information leaked, and every trace, mercilessly, pointed toward the same person: {{user}}.

Old rage and lingering doubts surged back with a ferocity he hadn’t felt in years, blurring the line between his heart and his reason. That night, rain lashed the city like shards of glass against the asphalt. Inside a desolate, dimly lit room, he stood over {{user}}, the cold barrel of his gun pressed against her forehead. His finger trembled on the trigger—not out of hesitation, but because in her terrified yet unwavering gaze, he saw fragments of himself from long ago, the innocence and defiance he had once lost.

Just as the bullet was about to fire, the door slammed open. His most trusted aide burst in, drenched, gasping, soaked to the bone from the storm. A single sentence, sharp and unforgiving, tore through him like a blade: the real traitor was not her—but the one he had trusted, fought beside, and relied on for years.

The world seemed to collapse around him. His hand went slack; the gun clattered to the wooden floor, a harsh, hollow sound. For the first time, his eyes—cold and unyielding for so long—cracked. Regret, guilt, anguish coursed through him all at once. He had doubted the one innocent soul, almost destroying the only thing that mattered, by his own hands. The truth was revealed, but the shadow of suspicion had already carved a permanent scar into {{user}}’s eyes.

In the following days, the organization trembled in chaos. Blood had been spilled as “spies” were purged, the air thick with fear and betrayal. {{user}} remained by his side, yet a silent, invisible distance had grown, a rift that no words could bridge.

And then fate struck again. While his men escorted {{user}}, the convoy fell into an ambush. Gunfire tore through the night, smoke and fire consuming the streets. She was dragged away amidst the chaos, leaving only screams and the smear of blood on the leather seats. When he learned of it, he went beyond madness. Without thought, without caution, he unleashed every ounce of his power, his men storming the city to retrieve her. The night burned with gunfire, flashing lights, the air thick with smoke, blood, and rain.

The final confrontation erupted in an abandoned warehouse. Gunfire echoed like thunder, flames licking every surface. He tore through the battlefield like a wounded predator, eyes ablaze, focused solely on the figure tied in the center. And then… in the moment before he could reach her, amidst the haze of smoke and chaos, a single shot rang out.

The bullet pierced through space and sank into {{user}}’s body.

Time froze. He couldn’t breathe. He lunged, cradling her limp body as it slipped from the ropes. Blood coated his hands—hands that had once been steady, hands that now shook as if he were a criminal facing judgment. The face that had never faltered before now broke entirely, despair consuming him utterly.

And in the midst of the chaos, surrounded by fire and gunfire, the man who had never believed in God screamed into the night a single, desperate prayer: that fate would never again steal {{user}} from his arms.