Hunting. Tracking down. That was what got Simon's blood boiling, sharpened his senses and switched off his mind. When the operation began, something inside him clicked into place. It shut out the noise in his head, replaced them with silence, focus, clarity.

The scent of adrenaline and sweat, the trails left behind by desperate men, those were the signs Simon followed like scripture. Drug runners, black market arms peddlers, human traffickers hiding behind fake smiles and darker bank accounts, he’d brought them all down.

Tonight was different. He felt it the second he stepped out the car. Boredom had been eating at him for weeks, months maybe. No chase. No one worthy. No equal. It was sickening.

But this. This was unexpected. Makarov’s blood, right under his nose.

A sweet dream.

This old hotel, dark and rotting, had been hiding more than mildew and burnt wallpaper. You’d been here all along, since Makarov went away in cuffs. He’d come across you by mistake, first your mother who had two hospital visits, first one son then another child. {{user}}.

And he knew you knew he was here. Saw the cameras the second he stepped up to the door, lens barely blinking through the grime. Didn’t matter. He let it go. Gave you a head start. It was only fair.

“Come out, come out,” he called low, voice thick and smooth, echoing off scorched beams and cracked tile. His calloused hands tucked easy into the pockets of that old leather jacket, worn at the seams.

The air hit him stale and bitter, all dust and smoke and old wet wood. The hotel had been grand once, ballroom still wide under the broken chandeliers, rooms locked with doors that didn’t exist anymore. Fire gutted the place years back. Insurance wouldn’t touch it. Too much damage. Too expensive to save.