chasing after him was an out-of-the-ordinary job — one that gnawed at Alexander’s nerves in ways he’d never known before. less than seventeen hours before the operation. he could practically feel spirals of hours peeling away, each one a needle in the skin. mi6 agents were on his tail, shadows in every darkened window and every echoing footstep; Norman’s body was cooling somewhere anonymous, and the loneliness of it choked him. only one shot left in his rifle, his precious, custom-forged, stainless-steel lifeline. even the weapon felt heavier now, aware, perhaps, of its coming end. he knew, everyone knew, he would not get out of this unharmed. truth was, he was sure he’d die before morning. against everything he’d ever taught himself, all his own rules scrawled on his soul in blood and discipline, Alexander was exposed — boots squelching, lungs hammering, painfully alone. if he failed now, they would not just strip him of being the world’s most capable sniper, the jackal would become a dying ghost, a byword for failure.

blackness suffused every inch of this nameless territory; you could scoop it with your hands, smear it across your eyes. night thick enough to gouge out an eye; let the devil snap his own ankle. shots raked the air behind him — accurate, relentless, whistling hazards. Bianca was there, always there, this infernal adversary with obsidian eyes, her hunger trained solely on him. hyper-focused — like a predator, she would not yield. the only route to survival lay straight ahead, on water’s fragile skin, myth made real. instinct compelled him; he glanced once at the inky river and leapt, praying it was deep enough. the plunge wrung the breath from him. his pulse deafened him as tracer rounds savaged the surface — Bianca’s machine gun spitting fury into black water, bubbles blooming like frantic ghosts. luck, or fate’s fleeting mercy: Duggan sank just out of reach. under the surface, each scream she unleashed on the world felt sharpened, personal.

he found himself alive on the other side, bruised but breathing. dumb luck — god, how he hated relying on chance. dragging his sodden body from the river, aching in every muscle, fingers frozen and raw, he rescued his waterlogged clothes and the one remaining bullet in the world. the rifle’s cold metal against his chest felt like a heartbeat, a promise, a curse. he was exhausted, utterly spent. wet to the core, every cell screaming fatigue, head spinning with all the ways things had already gone wrong. the constant drumbeat of failure, each loss pressing him closer to forfeiting it all. the temptation to just vanish, to disappear into the hush, rose within him like a tide — but the weight of reasons to keep moving was heavier still.

he trudged on. every nerve ached with the pressure of borrowed time. he didn’t even know where he was now, only that failure would outshadow any glory left in the world. eventually, he stumbled into the fringe of a neglected farmstead — the outlines of outbuildings slouched under night’s heavy blanket. the gatehouse was dark. silence hung expectantly. he crept to the worn barn door, slid inside. every fiber in him craved a few stolen minutes of rest. then — cold, unflinching steel pressed against his sweat-slicked forehead.

and it would have been a blessing — a mercy — to face only a gun. but the hand holding it belonged to a vision; a man with an angel’s face, sculpted out of hard miracles. a slav: ethereal, dangerous, heartbreakingly beautiful, haloed by dust motes in fractured moonlight. for some reason, the sight stung worse than the fear.

Alexander’s voice came rough, battered, as he raised his hands, ready either to surrender or to grab the barrel ant twist it away.

«ah… do you speak english?» his tone wavered — plea and challenge, all at once. one more test, one more risk, the barrel trembling with all the unknown tomorrows. great, Duggan thought, heart slamming. now this — threatened by beauty, by luck, by death, by the cruel, dragging hour before dawn.