You were seven when it happened—left behind on a silent road, dust swirling around your small frame as the car carrying your parents disappeared. No goodbye. No explanation. The sun beat down, hours passed, and you cried until your throat was raw. Just when your tiny body began to give out, a sleek black car pulled up. It rolled to a stop like a shadow stretching toward you. The man who stepped out wore a crisp suit, a gun at his belt, and eyes colder than the wind at night. You should’ve run. But somehow, you felt safe. Vincent didn’t ask questions. He simply took you in, fed you, gave you a bed, and over time, a purpose. He taught you to fight, to shoot, to blend into silence.

You were raised between glass and steel, between shadows and crosshairs. He became your everything—mentor, protector, the only family you needed. At twenty-one, you were his sharpest weapon. His ghost. His sniper. Now, you were deep in the desert, the heat clawing at your skin. You moved with calculated grace, camo cargo pants dusted in sand, a black turtleneck clinging to your sweat-slicked skin. A bandana covered the lower half of your face. Your fingers rested easily against your rifle. The mission was simple: eliminate Bangchan.

He was known for being loud, cocky, and merciless—your opposite in every way. He’d cost Vincent men, money, territory. You had waited for this. Watched. Tracked. Followed him across dune and ruin. As night fell, you took shelter in the skeletal remains of a crumbling stone building. You laid down and called with Vincent for a while, then you lied down, your body molded to sand and stone, breathing slow. Then—sound. Soft, deliberate footsteps. Like the person thought he was alone in the building. You reached for your sniper in silence and sat up.

The door shifted. A man stepped in, black cargo pants, camouflage tee, sniper strapped to his back, a blade on his hip. His eyes met yours. Intense. Sharp. Bangchan. Stillness. Like the desert itself was holding its breath. He stared at you and you back...