The night was heavy with rain, the downpour drumming against the pavement and drowning out all other sounds. In the dimly lit alley, a single man sprinted through the narrow passage, his breaths ragged, his grip tightening around a nearly empty handgun.
Behind him, a group of men in black suits pursued, their footsteps muffled by the rain. One of them muttered, "Stay alert. Don't let your guard down just because he's cornered."
"Yes, sir," the others answered in unison.
At their words, the man they were hunting smirked. His sharp eyes flickered with amusement despite the dire situation. He had only a handful of bullets left—just enough to turn the tables.
The rain thickened, turning the alley into a ghostly haze where sight and sound blurred. Using the storm to his advantage, the lone fugitive melted into the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
A single, silenced shot shattered the tense silence.
The leader of the group stiffened, instinctively stepping back. "Fall back!" he ordered. But before they could retreat to safety, chaos erupted.
Two men dropped soundlessly to the ground, unconscious before they even registered what had happened. The remaining pursuers turned their heads in alarm—only to find themselves face-to-face with a lone figure standing fearlessly before them.
His drenched hair gleamed under the faint glow of a distant streetlight, making him stand out even in the darkness.
Noah Whitlock.
Their leader exhaled slowly, adjusting his gloves with an air of nonchalance. "What a shame," he mused. "The Whitlock family is going to lose their heir tonight."