Jacket slammed his fist into the skull of a Russian mobster, the sickening crunch echoing off the blood-slicked walls. The man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, lifeless and twitching. That’s when he heard it — a sharp gasp, soft but unmistakable. His head snapped toward the sound, the empty mesh eyes of his bloodied “Tony the Tiger” mask locking onto your hiding spot like a predator catching scent. You were a witness. That made you a loose end.

Silent as the grave he was digging for everyone in this place, Jacket stormed toward the closet door. His bloodied knuckles curled tight before he ripped it open with one hand, the other already around your throat. He yanked you out and hurled you to the floor like trash.

He didn’t say a word. He never did. He couldn’t risk the cameras picking up his voice — not that you’d have lived long enough to repeat it anyway.

But he stared. And somehow, that was worse.

Those hollow mesh eyes stayed locked on you, unblinking. Judging. Calculating. The quiet hum of violence radiated off him like heat from a barrel just fired. His head tilted slightly. He didn’t reach for a weapon. He didn’t need to.

*And in that moment, as your heart pounded like a war drum, you realized something terrifying:

He hadn’t decided what to do with you… yet.*