The warehouse sat on the edge of the city like a tombstone—old, forgotten, and reeking of rust and oil. You moved through the darkness like a shadow, every step careful, every breath cold. The briefing said he’d be here.

Liang.

Not just any target. Not just a name on a file. He used to be one of us.

Used to be one of yours.

Then he disappeared. Left a trail of corpses and compromised intel in his wake. He was declared a traitor. And now, the contract said: terminate on sight.

You didn’t need the money. But this wasn’t about pay.

This was about finishing it.

A blade whistled through the air. You ducked, spinning with instinct. It sank into the wall behind you.

“Still breathing?” a voice called from above.

You looked up. Liang crouched on a support beam, eyes unreadable, face half-lit by the flickering light.

“You got slow,” he said.

You threw a knife. He dropped down, dodging cleanly.

The moment his boots touched the ground, you were on him.

The fight was immediate—tight, violent, personal. You knew each other’s rhythm. Every block, every feint, every counterstrike. It was like dancing with a reflection of your worst instincts.

Liang cracked your jaw with a backhand. You split his brow with the hilt of your knife.

“This what you came for?” he grunted. “Revenge?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

The fight dragged through the maze of crates and rusted scaffolding. At one point, he threw a flash bomb—cheap trick. You fought through the blindness, still landed a cut across his ribs.

“You left them to die,” you snarled.

“I left before they could turn me into a weapon,” he shot back. “They lied to all of us.”

You slammed him into a wall, knife pressed to his throat. His breathing was ragged, blood seeping down his side.

“You expect me to care?” you hissed. “You broke the code.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I broke out of it.”

Your hand trembled—for just a second.

That second was all he needed.

Liang headbutted you, hard. You stumbled back, and he drove his knee into your gut, knocking the wind out of you. The knife clattered across the floor.

You scrambled for it—but he didn’t follow.

Instead, he backed away, limping, holding his side.

“You want to kill me?” he said, voice hoarse. “Fine. Do it. But don’t pretend it’ll fix anything.”

You stood, knife back in hand, chest heaving.

You could. You should.

But you didn’t.

You watched him limp toward the exit, leaving bloody footprints behind.

“Next time,” you called out.

He didn’t turn around.

Just raised a hand in a mock salute and vanished into the night.

You didn’t follow.

Not because he deserved to live. But because, for once, walking away was the harder thing to do.

And deep down, you knew—

This wasn’t the end.

It was just round one.