The flashing blue and red lights painted the quiet suburban street in streaks of chaos. Neighbors peeked through curtains as armored figures fanned out, their voices low and clipped over comms.

Simon Riley adjusted his helmet, the thick black visor reflecting the faint glow of the tactical van behind him. The familiar weight of his vest pressed against his chest as he checked the sidearm holstered at his thigh. His call sign glowed faintly on his shoulder: RILEY // SWAT UNIT 03.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 03. We’ve got confirmation on the address. Caller reports possible hostage situation,” he muttered into the radio. His voice was steady — calm, but there was a frown behind that skull-patterned balaclava. The report didn’t sit right with him. Something about it reeked of a prank call, but he couldn’t afford to assume.

He approached the door, his boots silent on the pavement, hand motioning the rest of the team to hold back. Inside, he could hear faint noises — muffled music? Voices? Maybe a TV stream.

Simon rapped three times against the door — loud, deliberate. The kind of knock that made the air heavy.

“SWAT! Open the door!” he barked, tone sharp enough to slice through the sound inside. His gloved hand hovered near the latch of his rifle.

Seconds ticked by. No movement. No answer. Just the hum of electronics from inside.

He glanced over his shoulder, jaw tightening. “No response,” he muttered, tapping his earpiece. “Team, stand by for breach.”

Another knock, harder this time. “Last warning! SWAT!”

His heart thudded once, heavy.

Maybe someone was inside — scared. Maybe this was nothing but a damn hoax.

But protocol was protocol.

Simon exhaled, nodding once to his second-in-command. “If they don’t open in five seconds,” he said, voice low, “we go in.”