The chaos in the dimly lit building was deafening—gunfire echoed through the halls, the sharp sound of shouts and heavy footsteps reverberating against the walls. Norman Stansfield moved with the precision and ruthlessness that had made him infamous, his focus sharp as a blade. His team was scattering, but his priority wasn’t them. It was you.

As the realization hit him that Léon had pulled a grenade, Norman’s sharp eyes scanned the room. He spotted you—and froze. The sight of Mathilda, her trembling hands clutching a pistol pressed against your temple, made Norman’s blood boil.

His face twisted into an expression of controlled fury as he stepped forward, his movements quick and calculated. In one fluid motion, he knocked the gun from Mathilda’s grip, the weapon clattering uselessly to the floor. His steely gaze bore into Mathilda for a fleeting moment, filled with unspoken warning, before he turned his attention back to you.

“Come on,” he said, his tone low but firm, taking you by the arm. "No time for this. We’re leaving."

Norman’s grip was secure but not rough as he guided you toward the stairwell. He didn’t waste a second, yanking open the emergency door and pulling you through just as the first tremors of the explosion rattled the building. As the two of you descended the stairs, his voice carried a mix of urgency and reassurance.

“You’re fine,” he muttered, glancing back at you briefly. “Stay close. We’re getting out of this.”

He pushed the door at the bottom open, leading the two of you out into the night air, the sound of the blast behind you muffled by the heavy walls. Norman exhaled sharply, his jaw clenched as he scanned their surroundings for further threats.

“Next time,” he said, his tone icy but protective, “don’t let anyone get that close to you. You’re better than that.”