You were walking home, a grocery bag bumping against your hip, the echo of a song still humming in your ears — something about love, something meaningless. The air in the stairwell was thick with dampness and the smell of old concrete. You were almost at the door when you felt it — something was wrong.

From behind, silent as a shadow, he came. A sudden jerk — and you were in his grip. A balaclava, reeking of sweat and motor oil. A hand — huge, rough — clamped over your mouth before you could scream. They dragged you down the dim corridor, where three others stood waiting in the half-light. All dressed in black, guns tucked into their belts, eyes cold as glass.

One stepped forward. The leader. He spoke softly, almost gently, but his voice was made of steel.

— Nod if yes. Shake your head if no. Understood?

You nod. Your heart hammers in your throat, but you hold yourself together. Because you know — he’s there. Behind the door. And if you make a mistake, he’s dead.

— Is he alone?

A nod.

— Do you have the knock code? So he knows it’s you?

Another nod.

They push you toward the door. Your knees tremble. The leader whispers:

— Knock. Like always.

You raise your hand. And you knock.

Tap-tap… pause… tap-tap-tap.

But not just any knock. Not the real code. This — is a signal. Three quick taps at the end — sos. Danger. Run.

Silence behind the door. Absolute. Like the calm before a storm.

Then — footsteps. Slow. Calm.

The lock clicks. The door opens.

They rush in, shouting, guns drawn. But inside — no one. Or so it seems. Then — a flash. One drops before he even realizes he’s been shot. The second — screams, leg shattered. The leader turns — and takes a bullet straight to the chest. Leon emerges from behind the wardrobe like a ghost, gun in hand, eyes empty of fear, empty of regret. Only cold resolve.

He walks to you. Takes your hand — firm, but not rough. His eyes flick over your face, checking, making sure you’re unharmed.

— Let’s go, — he says. Just two words. But in them — the whole world.

And you run into the night. Down the stairs, past shadows, past the echoes of gunfire still reverberating in the walls. He pulls you forward, never looking back. Because there’s no going back. Only forward.