HARDIN'S POV
The little pest had just left.
I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head as my fingers hovered over the keyboard. A final keystroke — and the system cracked like a brittle bone.
Access granted.
System hacked.
A satisfying smirk curved my lips as I leaned back in my chair, fingers laced behind my head. Satisfaction had a sound — and it was silence after victory.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I liked unknown numbers. They were rarely boring.
I answered, voice smooth. "Hello."
The reply was anything but friendly.
A low, thick, snarling voice cut through the line, crackling like it was calling from Hades' basement:
"Cross to the other side of town. Warehouse 13. We've waited long enough. If you're late, you'll miss more than just the party."
Hmm. Dramatic.
I laughed softly. "Am I supposed to be scared, or… entertained?"
"I don't care what you think. You have thirty minutes, Briggs. One second late, and the whole thing goes off without you. And trust me, you'll regret it."
I leaned forward, my voice sharpening into something quieter — colder.
"Oh, how thoughtful," I muttered. "You even know my name."
A beat of silence.
Then: "Stop playing games. This isn't one of your puzzles. If you delay—"
I cut in. "I'll be there in ten."
Then my voice dropped, low and lethal.
"But here's a tip—watch your back."
Then I cut the call.
Silence.
I stared at my screen for a beat longer, that same slow smirk crawling back onto my face.
They thought I was walking into something dark.
Cute.
They just didn't realize...
I am the darkness.
~~20 minutes later — Warehouse 13~~
The rain had started. Not pouring — just steady, cold, and quiet like the sky was trying to whisper warnings I didn't care to hear.
I stood at the edge of the warehouse lot, hands tucked in my pockets, head tilted slightly.
Warehouse13 looked just as expected — abandoned but not forgotten. A single flickering light buzzed over the rusted door — the kind of place for secrets… or bodies.
I stepped forward.
Motion sensor.
Laser grid.
Tripwire — there.
Amateurs.
I slipped in through the side door. Unlocked.
Ohh... Cute little trap.
Inside, the air was damp and smelled like old metal and cheap betrayal.
Three men stood ahead — all muscle, nobrain. Black masks, black vests, the whole We're Very Intimidating starter pack.
One of them cracked his knuckles like that was supposed to make me flinch.
"Briggs," the middle one barked. He had a scar under his eye and the kind of face that screamed "frequent nose breaks."
"You called," I said coolly, scanning the dim-lit space behind them. No sign of their "boss." Just crates, shadows, and secrets I'd already unwrapped three days ago.
He stepped forward. "You're late."
I raised a brow. "I said ten minutes. I made it in eight. You're welcome."
He didn't like that.
Then, without thinking—he lunged, fist first like he was about to end a chapter with my face.
But I stepped to the side—hands still shoved in my pocket. Smooth. Like I'd seen it coming five minutes ago.
My elbow slammed into the side of his neck. Not hard. Just sharp and fast — the kind of hit that made the whole body shut down for a second.
He dropped. Just like that.
Like a sack of potatoes with bad timing.
The other two didn't even flinch. They pulled out weapons — one had a small knife, the other a short metal rod.
Classic.
I raised an eyebrow. "You guys sure about this?" I asked, voice flat. Almost tired.
They didn't answer. They rushed at me anyway.
Bad choice.
The guy with the knife came first. I grabbed his wrist, twisted it backward, and slammed his arm into the metal beam beside us.
It hit hard. Knife in hand, gone.
A quick knee to his stomach and he was down, gasping for air.
The one with the rod swung like he was trying to hit a home run. I ducked low, drove my shoulder into his gut, then grabbed his arm and flipped him over my waist.
He hit the floor hard.
I didn't give him time to get up — Slow.
I caught his arm mid-air, twisted it behind his back.
He yelped — and I kicked his knee in hard.
He collapsed.
"Yeah," I muttered, brushing off my shirt. "You'll be rethinking life for a few days."
I stepped over them — one groaning, the others out cold.
Didn't even look back.
I wasn't here for warmups.
No.
I kept walking, deeper into the warehouse, until I saw it —
The real reason I was called.
A setup in the back: old metal desk, broken chairs, a middle aged man sitting under a dim light.
Cigarette in hand, thick smoke curling around his face like secrets.
This was the real meeting.
And I was just getting started.
"Cute little performance," he said without looking up, voice smooth and sharp — like a silk tie hiding a blade. "You always this dramatic?"
"I like to keep things interesting," I said coolly, stepping forward. "Now, how about you cut the intro before I lose interest."
He smirked and finally stood. His eyes studied me — like he thought he could read me.
"You really do represent your boss well," he said, tapping ash onto the concrete.
I didn't flinch. "Do not waste my time." I said flatly.
He chuckled low — one of those dry, arrogant laughs that makes you want to snap someone's neck.
"You kids these days," he said, strolling around like he owned the oxygen. "Always in a hurry. But sure — I won't waste your time. I just wanted to talk."
I gave a single, humorless laugh. "If I wanted a conversation, I'd have texted my therapist."
He didn't respond. Just turned his back and walked past me like I was a valet. "Follow me."
I didn't move at first.
I watched him. Head tilted slightly. Something about him rubbed wrong — not fearsome, not even clever. Just… old crime dressed in new cologne.
Disgust tugged at my face.
But I smirked anyway.
Fine.
Let's see how deep this rabbit hole wants to go. And if I get bored?
They'll regret burning even one second of my time.
I followed.
Not because I trusted him.
But because it might be fun to break him.
The hallway narrowed the deeper we went, the air growing colder, heavier — like it knew something ugly was about to happen. Every footstep echoed like a ticking clock.
We finally stopped in front of a rusted steel door. A single red bulb above it flickered like a warning.
Wilson turned to me, smirked like a man who thought death was just another poker chip.
"Here we are," he announced, then shoved the door open.
Inside, the room was small. Windowless.
Dim-lit. One table. Two metal chairs bolted to the floor.
And in the center of the table — nothing yet. Just the promise of something grim.
He motioned to the chair opposite his. "Have a seat."
I walked in slow. Sat like I had all the time in the world — because I did. I always did.
He lowered himself into the other chair with that same smugness, rubbing his palms like he was about to crack open a good bottle of scotch.
"One-on-one?" I asked, raising a brow.
Wilson snorted. "What, nervous?"
I gave a short laugh. "Just making sure I'm not walking into another joke."
His eyes twitched — the kind of man who didn't like being questioned, but liked control too much to show it.
Then he reached under the table.
A revolver hit the metal surface like a gavel in a courtroom.
"RussianRoulette," Wilson said with calm finality, sliding the revolver to the center. "I assume you know the rules."
I stared at it, then back at him — his fingers calmly interlocked, elbows resting lightly on the table like this was a quiet Sunday brunch.
"I'll let you go first," he added.
I picked it up without a word.
Opened the cylinder. One bullet — polished, almost respectful.
"What's the wager?" I asked casually, spinning it slow, watching the blur.
Wilson leaned back in his chair, eyes cool. "You win, and we disappear. No surveillance. No shadowing your assets. For three months, you work without interference."
"And if I lose?" I asked.
"You hand over backend access to your whole system," he replied smoothly. "Your network. Unfiltered. Your list, your safe routes. All of it."
Bold.
"High risk," I said, closing the cylinder. "High reward."
He smirked. "The only kind worth anything."
I nodded once. "Interesting."
He laughed. "Didn't even flinch, huh? But let's see if you've got the balls to—"
Click.
I pulled the trigger.
Empty chamber.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even shift in my seat.
The laugh in his throat stalled for a second. Just a twitch. A pause. But he recovered, chuckling like a TV villain with a script.
He just reached for the gun like we were sharing drinks.
Spun.
Raised.
Then Click.
His hand remained steady. Of course it did. Wilson didn't come here to lose. Men like him don't walk into loaded games without loaded outcomes. The type who set the trap five moves before the game even started
But the funny part was—he actually thought he had the upper hand on ONYX's systems. What an idiot! As if that was supposed to scared me. Pathetic.
I took the gun again, letting my fingers trace the worn steel.
"You don't strike me as the type to gamble without assurance," I said, voice low.
Wilson smiled with closed lips — cool, unreadable. "And you don't strike me as someone who plays fair. That's why we're here."
I laughed under my breath. "Touché."
I spun again.
Click.
Another empty.
Each round stretched thinner. But neither of us broke posture. Not a twitch. Not a change in tone.
He took it next, cocked it casually.
Click.
He placed the gun back in the center with absolute calm, but his eyes locked with mine now — not just looking, but reading.
Testing.
We weren't playing Russian Roulette anymore. We were unraveling each other.
"Tell me," I asked, tone light, "why me? There are louder criminals in the city."
"Because the loud ones die quickly," he replied. "But you… you move like smoke. Quiet. Disruptive. But always leaving a trace for someone like me to follow."
I leaned forward slowly, resting my elbows on the table. "So what, this was a conversation starter?"
He smiled faintly. "It was a filter. For weak men."
"And did I pass?"
Wilson didn't answer immediately. Just chuckled like he knew what he was doing.
He met my eyes, finally answering.
"If you hadn't, we wouldn't still be talking."
I smirked, leaning back.
Round after round.
Gun returned.
No one dead.
But this wasn't about pulling the trigger. Not really.
It was about who blinked first.
And neither of us had yet.