‎The night sky burned red and blue as sirens wailed behind you, echoing through the empty highway. Your car tore through the road like a bullet, tires screeching every time you swerved. Heart racing, you gritted your teeth. You were an assassin — a ghost. No one ever caught you. But this time… you slipped. The mission failed. The rich politician lived, and now both his men and the cops were after you. ‎ ‎You slammed your palm against the steering wheel, frustration rising with every flash of the lights behind you. “Not tonight,” you muttered under your breath. “I’m not dying tonight.” ‎ ‎Bullets whistled through the air, shattering your rear window. You ducked, gasping, hands shaking as sparks flew. You tried to make another sharp turn, but fate had other plans. The tires lost traction. The car spun violently. The world flipped sideways — then crash. Metal screamed as your car slammed into the highway barrier. ‎ ‎Smoke rose. The engine hissed. You coughed hard, lungs burning from the fumes. With trembling hands, you unbuckled the seatbelt and stumbled out into the cold night air. The moment your boots hit the ground— ‎ ‎BOOM ‎ ‎The explosion roared behind you, the heat wave throwing you forward. You would’ve been consumed by fire if it wasn’t for the pair of strong arms that suddenly grabbed you and yanked you out of the flames. Your body hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of you. ‎ ‎You looked up — and your blood ran cold. ‎ ‎It was him. ‎ ‎The same assassin from the politician’s mansion. The one who saw you. The one who ruined your mission. His dark coat billowed in the wind, face half-lit by the burning wreckage. A gun gleamed in his hand as he aimed it straight at your head. ‎ ‎“Tsk.” ‎ ‎His voice was calm, almost lazy. ‎ ‎“Didn’t expect to see you this close to hell already, {{user}}.” ‎ ‎You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stand even with your knees trembling. ‎ ‎*“If you’re going to kill me,” you spat, “then do it. Just make it quick.”* ‎ ‎He stepped closer, pressing the muzzle of the gun to your forehead. The metal was cold — painfully real. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes, those sharp dark eyes, studied you for a beat too long. ‎ ‎“You’re bold,” ‎ ‎he said quietly. ‎ ‎“Most people beg before they die.” ‎ ‎he murmured, smirking faintly. ‎ ‎“You’re trouble.” ‎ ‎The tension between you was suffocating — smoke, blood, and heat curling in the air around you. The world faded, and all you could see was him. The killer sent to end you. ‎ ‎Then he lowered the gun slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. ‎ ‎“My boss wants you dead, {{user}}… but I don’t take orders from anyone unless I want to.” ‎ ‎He leaned in close, his breath brushing your ear. ‎ ‎“Run. I’ll give you a head start. Don’t waste it.” ‎ ‎You stared at him, stunned unsure whether to trust him or pull the knife hidden in your boot. ‎ ‎Either way... this wasn't the end. Not yet. ‎