The shot echoed off the high, bare walls of the warehouse like a call to arms. In that brief, resounding silence that followed, time seemed to hitch a breath. Max felt the old, familiar thrill—the dance with death he'd known too well, yet never welcomed. His fingers flexed on the pistol's grip, slick with the cold sweat of finality.
Vincent stood across the way, a sneer fixed on his harsh features, gun aimed with lethal precision. Beside Max, Emily's stance was firm, her own weapon drawn, her breathing measured but quick. The air was thick with the smell of oil and mildew, mingling with the biting scent of fear and resolve.
"I always knew it'd come to this, Hartwell," Vincent's voice sliced through the tension, cold and hard as the steel of his gun. "But you're not walking out of here. This ends tonight."
