#9

Number Nine moved fast.

His boots barely made a sound as he surged into the hallway, gun leveled. The remaining three had regrouped further down, using the walls as cover. Professionals. They weren't panicked—yet. That would change soon.

The first of them leaned out to fire. Nine was already ahead of him. One shot, center mass. The impact folded the man in half, his rifle clattering to the ground. The hallway was momentarily deafened by the sound of the gunshot, but it was short-lived. There was no immediate response from the building—no shouts, no panic, no doors slamming shut. Odd. Too quiet.

The second dropped low, trying to spray suppression fire. Nine ducked right, pressing himself into a doorway as bullets tore through the air where he'd just been. Too slow.

Nine stepped out, snapping his wrist forward. A knife left his fingers, spinning end over end. It caught the man in the throat, cutting off his breath with a gurgling gasp. Blood pooled quickly around him, his body collapsing to the floor in a heap.

One left.

The last man, cornered and smart, didn't hesitate. He darted back, sprinting deeper into the building. Nine knew it was coming. A last-ditch attempt to escape. To regroup. But escape wasn't an option.

Nine followed, moving like a shadow. His steps were light, but his mind was sharp, sensing everything. The floor creaked. The faintest shift in the air. The target was fast, but Nine was faster. He heard the man's breath hitch just ahead—waiting, setting up an ambush.

Not today.

Nine moved first. He pivoted, throwing his body into a fluid roll, clearing the doorway just as the man turned, rifle raised to fire. The shot missed, the air splitting with the thunderous report, but Nine was already on him. A knee to the gut dropped the man to the floor with a wheeze. A shot rang out, and the target's face went slack, blood spraying as the bullet tore through his skull.

Silence.

Nine stood, breathing evenly, his pulse steady. It was over.

But something didn't sit right.

The building was still. Too still. Normally, in a place like this, he'd expect to hear the sounds of people panicking, running for cover, shouting for help. The walls were too quiet. Even the faint hum of the elevator was absent. There was no distant murmur of television sets or the soft shuffle of feet through hallways.

No civilians.

Nothing.

Nine's instincts screamed at him. He moved toward the window and peered through the blinds. The sky had darkened, but what caught his eye wasn't the city lights or the looming clouds—it was the silhouette of a helicopter approaching. The familiar hum of rotors beat in the air, the sharp metallic glint of the chopper cutting through the blackened sky.

This wasn't just a squad of hired guns. No. This was something bigger. The side door of the helicopter slid open mid-flight, and a figure stood at the edge, their silhouette clear against the backdrop of the city.

Nine's grip on his gun tightened. These weren't just random mercenaries. This was an extraction team sent for him.

They weren't here to negotiate. They were here to eliminate.

And the fact that there was no sound of other people running or evacuating from the building? That didn't sit well. This operation wasn't just a raid—it was controlled, planned. They'd sealed the building, making sure no one could alert the authorities. No civilians had fled, no one had tried to get away.

The building was locked down.

Nine smirked. They thought they had him cornered. But they were about to find out just how wrong they were.

He moved swiftly to the stairwell, taking two steps at a time. He wasn't going to stay on this floor. He needed a better vantage point, a way to outmaneuver them. He could hear the sounds of boots echoing in the stairwell below, but they weren't moving fast enough.

When he reached the rooftop, he wasted no time. He kicked the door open, the harsh wind hitting him immediately. The city sprawled beneath him, the lights flickering in the distance. But he didn't have time to admire the view.

He ran toward the edge, calculating the distance. A quick glance confirmed what he already knew—the next building was too far to simply leap across.

No matter.

Without hesitation, Nine sprinted at full speed, pushing himself toward the edge. In an instant, he launched into the air. His heart hammered in his chest, but his body was a machine, honed for moments like these. He hit the next rooftop with a hard thud, rolling to absorb the impact. The pain in his ribs flared, but he ignored it. The real fight was only just beginning.

Gunfire erupted behind him. The squad had followed, but they were trailing too far. Nine didn't stop, weaving through the shadows, using the skeletal steel structures of the city as cover. The sound of footsteps grew louder. They were closing in, but they weren't fast enough.

He needed an opening.

Ahead, he saw it—a construction site, filled with unfinished steel beams and cables stretching across the skyline. Perfect.

Nine's eyes narrowed as he sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop. He grabbed a dangling cable mid-stride, using its momentum to swing across the gap. His boots barely touched the framework before he was already moving, using the beams for cover, his eyes flicking back toward the rooftop he'd just left.

The squad was on him, closing in, trying to box him in from all sides. They were faster than he'd anticipated.

He didn't have time to think. He just moved.

A flash of metal—a gun barrel—whizzed past his head, narrowly missing. He ducked, then slid beneath one of the beams, taking cover. There was a burst of gunfire from another direction—he wasn't alone. They were methodically closing in from every angle.

His heart raced. He couldn't let them surround him. One of them tried to get the drop on him, moving up from his right. Nine shot first, the bullet slamming into the operative's shoulder, sending him sprawling.

Another operative was on the far side, trying to maintain pressure. Nine rolled behind a steel beam and popped back up in one fluid motion, taking him down with a quick shot to the chest.

There were only two left.

Nine kept moving, flowing like water between beams and cables, always one step ahead. The last two operatives moved closer, communicating silently, setting up a perfect crossfire. They thought they had him cornered.

But Nine was already there.

He emerged from the shadows with one final, brutal sprint. The first operative was taken out with a shot straight through the throat. The second barely had time to react before Nine was on him—grabbing him by the wrist, twisting his arm behind his back, and snapping it with a single, vicious motion.

The operative's gun fell to the steel floor.

Nine didn't hesitate. One last shot.

The man's body crumpled to the ground.

The city stood still. There were no more sounds of gunfire. No more footsteps. The squad was dealt with.

But something felt wrong about this. No civilians. No alarms. They'd been waiting for him. But why? And who else was behind it all?

Tonight wasn't about answers. It was about survival.

And Nine had just sent a message.

He wasn't going anywhere.