The elevator shaft groaned.
Ethan's breath hitched as he flattened himself against the kitchen counter, the cool steel pressing into his back. Shadows danced along the walls as the fluorescent light above flickered once—twice—and then held.
Someone was coming.
The polished floor vibrated—barely noticeable, but enough. He reached for the drawer and quietly slid it open. A kitchen knife—too short. A bottle opener—useless. He snatched a heavy frying pan and tightened his grip.
Then, silence.
The apartment door creaked.
He spun toward it, heart pounding. But it didn't open. The creak hadn't come from his door.
The balcony.
Ethan turned his head just as the glass sliding door rattled open. A figure stepped through the narrow gap—silent, masked, armed.
Shit.
Ethan didn't wait. He hurled the frying pan at the intruder's face and dove to the side as a silenced shot hissed past his ear. The pan clanged off the doorframe and clattered to the floor. Another shot—closer this time—pierced the air.
Ethan rolled behind the couch. Adrenaline burned through his veins. He reached for the side table, grabbed a thick book, and hurled it toward the kitchen lights. Glass shattered.
Darkness.
For a second, everything was shadows.
Then he moved.
He darted across the room and dove into the hallway as bullets stitched the wall behind him. No time to think. Just run. He kicked open the utility cabinet—empty. No weapons. No time. He turned left—bathroom.
He dove inside and slammed the door shut just as another shot rang out.
Breathing hard, Ethan scanned the small room. Mirror. Towel rack. Toilet. And—
Under the sink.
A rusted pipe wrench.
He grabbed it, kicked open the door, and charged.
The intruder was halfway across the living room, silencer raised.
Ethan hurled the wrench.
It hit the attacker's shoulder—enough to throw off aim. A shot went wild. Ethan tackled the man mid-stride, both of them crashing through the coffee table. The intruder grunted, elbowed him in the ribs, and rolled free.
Ethan scrambled up, gasping.
Another shot cracked.
Then—
Whump.
The attacker dropped.
Cassian stood at the doorway, pistol smoking.
"Your instincts are rusty," he said coolly, stepping over the broken table. "But not dead."
Ethan stared at him, chest heaving.
"You followed me," he growled.
"I never left," Cassian replied. "Figured you'd need a safety net."
Ethan looked at the intruder—unconscious, maybe dead. "Who the hell sends an assassin just for opening a box?"
Cassian knelt beside the body and checked for a pulse. "People who know what's inside."
He pulled the mask off.
The man was clean-shaven, early thirties, eyes still fluttering. Ethan didn't recognize him.
Cassian searched the man's jacket. No ID. No tags. But a patch inside the collar—dark red, embroidered with a falcon.
Cassian frowned. "Not local."
Ethan stood in silence. The apartment, his life—shattered. He looked around: bullet holes in the walls, broken glass, a smashed coffee table. Everything familiar now tainted.
"This is insane," he muttered.
Cassian rose. "This is the threshold. Once you cross it, there's no return."
Ethan didn't reply. He stared at the hallway—where the secret compartment waited.
Cassian followed his gaze. "It's time."
Together, they stepped into the hall. The corridor light buzzed overhead.
At the end, a panel in the wall—barely visible—awaited them.
Cassian pressed his palm against it. The scanner blinked, then slid open, revealing a metallic chamber, cool and dim.
Inside, a terminal. An old-style biometric lock.
"Marcus designed this for you," Cassian said. "Biometrics keyed to your DNA. Only you can open it."
Ethan stared at the scanner. His reflection stared back—tired, angry, uncertain.
He wasn't ready. He didn't believe in fate. He didn't trust this. Not fully.
But someone had already tried to kill him for it.
And that meant... this wasn't just a story. It was survival.
Slowly, Ethan placed his hand on the scanner.
A green light swept across his palm.
The system beeped. A deep click echoed through the room.
Something massive stirred beneath the floor.
Behind him, Cassian spoke in a low voice, almost to himself.
"There's no going back now."
And for the first time, Ethan realized... he couldn't.
His apartment was gone—violated, compromised, marked. Everything he once called home was just a memory in flames.
There was only forward now.
And forward meant war.