**Curl's POV**
The night air was thick with tension as Curl stepped out of the building, his movements deliberate, calculated. His black leather gloves creaked slightly as he tightened his grip on the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The weight of its contents was familiar—tools of his trade.
He mounted his motorcycle, the engine roaring to life beneath him like a restrained beast. The city lights blurred past as he sped through the streets, his mind sharp, focused.
*What is this boy thinking?* The thought flickered through his mind, a rare moment of irritation. He tapped his earpiece, his voice cutting through the static like a blade.
"Koketso. Status."
A brief pause before the response crackled in his ear. *"Copy. Vehicle is still on the move. No deviations."*
"Maintain visual. Do *not* lose them." His tone left no room for argument.
*"Understood."*
Minutes later, Curl arrived at his destination—a high-end hotel, its glass façade reflecting the city's glow. He parked his bike in the shadows, his eyes scanning the perimeter. Two security guards stood at the entrance, their postures rigid, their dark suits and sunglasses marking them as hired muscle rather than true professionals.
Curl approached, his stride unhurried but commanding. One of them stepped forward, a hand raised.
"Sir, we need to inspect your bag."
Curl didn't break stride. His gaze locked onto the man's, cold and unreadable.
"No."
The guard stiffened. "It's protocol, sir."
Curl tilted his head slightly, his voice a low, dangerous hum. "Call your manager."
A silent exchange passed between the two guards before one spoke into his earpiece. Moments later, a man in a sharp red half-jersey and black trousers emerged, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement.
"Gentlemen, what's the issue?" The manager's voice was smooth, diplomatic.
The guard hesitated. "This *gentleman* refuses inspection."
The manager's eyes flicked to Curl—and then he laughed, a rich, amused sound. "Oh, for heaven's sake. This is our *COO.* He doesn't need inspection." He clapped Curl on the shoulder, still chuckling. "My apologies, Curl. New hires."
Curl gave a curt nod, his expression unchanging. "See that it doesn't happen again."
The guards stiffened, bowing their heads. "Our apologies, sir."
Curl didn't acknowledge them further. He stepped inside, the manager—Brill—falling into step beside him.
The interior was lavish, all polished marble and golden accents. The air smelled of expensive cologne and something faintly floral.
Brill grinned. "You like it?"
Curl's eyes swept the room, betraying nothing. "I see this has improved."
Brill chuckled. "That's it? No 'wow'? No 'this is incredible'?"
Curl's lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement. "You've done a good job."
*Internally, though?*
*This is flawless.*
But he would never say that out loud.
They took the elevator to the top floor, the silence between them comfortable. When the doors slid open, Brill gestured down the hall.
"Room 334. Soundproof, just as you requested. Floor's empty—listed as 'under renovation.'"
Curl gave a single nod. "Good."
Brill hesitated. "You sure you don't need backup?"
Curl didn't look at him. "I work alone."
With that, he walked away, his footsteps silent against the plush carpet.
Room 334 was pristine, the bed neatly made, the curtains drawn. Curl set his bag down, unzipping it with practiced ease. Within seconds, the disassembled pieces of his sniper rifle were laid out before him.
His hands moved with mechanical precision—barrel, scope, suppressor. Each component clicked into place, the weapon becoming whole under his touch.
He positioned himself at the window, the rifle resting on the ledge. The scope's crosshairs painted the world in sharp clarity.
Rain drizzled against the glass, the city below a maze of lights and shadows.
Then—movement.
A car, sleek and dark, speeding through the streets.
Curl's finger hovered over the trigger.
*Meanwhile, in Johannesburg…*
Kgotso's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "They're boxing us in."
Suvesh scanned the map frantically. "There's only one exit left. It's a trap."
Lindo exhaled sharply. "Doesn't matter. We don't have a choice."
Kgotso's jaw tightened. Then—a smirk.
"This car's got nitro."
Before anyone could react, he slammed the button.
The car *launched* forward, tires screeching.
*Back in the Hotel…*
Curl's earpiece buzzed.
*"Sir—they've activated nitro!"* Tsepo's voice was urgent.
Curl didn't respond. His breathing steadied. His finger curled around the trigger.
*One shot.*
The rifle kicked back with a muffled *thump.* The rear tire exploded. The car swerved violently, fishtailing before skidding to a halt.
Curl exhaled. "*Target neutralized.*"
---
Police swarmed the vehicle, guns drawn
Koketso's voice boomed through a bullhorn.
"Step out! Hands where we can see them!"
The doors opened.
Three figures emerged—Kgotso, Lindo, Suvesh.
No Vince.
Koketso's eyes narrowed.
*Where the hell is he?*
**
Curl disassembled the rifle just as quickly as he'd built it, his movements efficient, emotionless.
Mission accomplished.
For now.
He slipped out of the room, vanishing into the night like a ghost.