I was just there to clean up the mess — off-the-record, no questions asked. But the place was too quiet. Too still. I was halfway up the stairs when I heard the gunshot. I Kicked the door open. One man down. A phone in his hand. My photo is on the screen. Two words beneath it: “You're next.”

Then — a presence behind me. Cold metal pressed to my neck before I could turn.

“Your reflexes are good,” you said, voice calm. “But still too slow.”

You didn't pull the trigger. Our eyes met.

“You have to kill me,”

"You're late," you said with a grin.

And then... nothing happened. Which, somehow, made everything worse.