The street was a warzone, gunfire ripping through the night, echoing between the buildings. Bodies moved like shadows, ducking behind cars, raining down bullets like a storm with no end in sight. Your family’s men were on one side. His on the other. A decades old feud between families.

You were supposed to be aiming at the enemy.

But then you saw him.

Simon. He was across the street, tucked behind a rusted-out sedan, reloading with practiced efficiency. The plain black mask gave nothing away, but you knew that body, the way he moved, the sharp precision in his hands. You’d traced those scars in the dark, whispered his name in the spaces where no one could hear.

And now? Now you were supposed to kill him.

His head snapped up at the same moment your gun was trained on him. Realization struck, sharp and deep.

You didn’t shoot. Neither did he.

For a moment, the chaos blurred—the shouting, the gunfire, the smell of blood thick in the air. It was just the two of you, standing on opposite sides of a war you had no choice but to fight in.

A shot whizzed past your head, snapping you back to reality. Simon moved first, ducking back behind cover, and the moment shattered.

He was the enemy. You were his. And yet, neither of you could pull the trigger.

Not tonight.

But how many nights were left before one of you had to?