The storage unit was a cramped, dimly lit space that reeked faintly of old metal and oil. Shelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of collected trinkets, tools, and equipment.
On one, a dusty collection of souvenirs sat—small reminders of jobs gone by. A cracked lighter engraved with a forgotten crest, a leather-bound journal stained with blood, and an old pocket watch that didn't work anymore but looked expensive, all mementos of conflicts no one wanted to remember.
Among them was something more peculiar: a small, chipped crystal orb that shimmered faintly in the low light. It looked magical, though Nathan had never figured out its purpose, nor had he cared enough to try. It was just...there.
The other shelves were more utilitarian—spare parts, disassembled weapons, and neatly labeled boxes of ammunition. A small portable lamp cast a stark white light over the workbench in the center, where Nathan stood. His hands moved with the practiced precision of a craftsman as he worked on a sniper rifle. It was no ordinary weapon, though.
The intricate design of the receiver and the finely tuned barrel spoke to an understanding far beyond what most gunsmiths could claim.
For Nathan, building weapons was a calming ritual, a hobby that gave him focus. Each piece fit together with a satisfying click, each adjustment bringing him closer to completion. It was a way to kill time without wasting it—a careful balance between necessity and personal satisfaction.
The rifle was nearly complete. He slid the bolt into place, testing the action. Smooth. Flawless. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he inspected his work. But the moment was cut short by the faint scrape of metal on metal as the storage unit door rolled open.
Nathan's hand darted instinctively to the sidearm holstered at his hip as he turned to face the intruder. Standing in the doorway was a man with a lean, athletic build. His sharp cheekbones and piercing brown eyes gave him a predatory look, and his skin was a warm, earthy brown.
He wore a fitted black jacket over a gray shirt, and his jeans were dark and nondescript, blending into the shadows. His short-cropped hair framed a face that was both familiar and unreadable.
It was Rick Mason.
Rick leaned casually against the doorframe, his expression cool but alert, like someone who could shift from conversation to combat in an instant. "Nice setup you've got here," he said, his voice low and even, though there was an edge of amusement to it.
Nathan's shoulders visibly relaxed as he recognized Rick, his tension melting into a rare moment of ease. Despite the paranoia and caution honed from years of navigating this brutal world, Rick was a friend—one of the precious few Nathan allowed himself to trust. He quirked an eyebrow as he leaned slightly on the workbench. "Is this what you do on my dime?"
Rick scoffed, crossing his arms. "It might as well be my dime, seeing how you never show your face in our place of business." He shook his head, stepping further into the unit, his boots echoing softly on the concrete floor. "I've got word. A lot of people are looking for you."
Nathan barely paused, his attention shifting back to the sniper rifle in his hands as he began to methodically clean the barrel. "Do they have a name already?"
Rick shook his head. "No, but they'll have something soon enough."
Nathan nodded, as if that answer was exactly what he expected. "That's the point," he said calmly. "When they do, I'll be ready."
Rick's expression darkened, his agitation simmering just below the surface. "That's what I don't get." He gestured sharply, his voice rising slightly. "We've got a good thing going here, Nathan. We're doing good, making good money—hell, we're helping people. But it feels like you're ready to throw it all away. Why?"
Nathan's hands paused for a fraction of a second before he turned to Rick, his face unreadable, blank but heavy with something unspoken. "You know why," he said quietly. "The man I'm after. The things I want to do. I can't achieve any of that on my own—not the right way, not yet anyway."
Rick's frustration bubbled over, his arms dropping to his sides as he glared at Nathan. "So why not wait? Why take risks on this...hail-mary plan, when you could take things slow, bide your time, build your strength?"
Nathan began loading bullets into the now-completed sniper rifle, the soft clicks filling the air between them. "I've bided my time long enough," he said, his voice steady but edged with something darker.
He paused, gripping the rifle tightly, before continuing in a softer, almost haunted tone. "I can still see her face, you know? Lily and the other children..." He let out a slow, heavy sigh. "Every goddamn time I close my eyes."
The room fell silent, the weight of Nathan's words pressing down like a leaden curtain. Rick opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, his frustration tempered by a flicker of understanding. "Nathan..."
Nathan didn't lift his gaze from the sniper rifle, his fingers deftly sliding the final bullet into place with a satisfying click. "I'm not throwing anything away, Ricky. I'm doing what I have to do."
He leaned the rifle carefully against the workbench and let a faint smile creep onto his face, breaking the heavy atmosphere. "Anyway, are you here just to give me a lecture, or is there actually something I actually needed to hear?"
Rick sighed, his expression exasperated. He'd known Nathan long enough to recognize when the man's resolve was unshakable. Shaking his head, he relented. "There's a client. A loaded one. We've got a job, but they're asking for you specifically."
Nathan raised an eyebrow, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "For all intents and purposes, I have no connection to Maximus Security. Now, who would know better?"
Rick shrugged, his tone as even as he could manage. "It was some gray-headed lady. Spoke with a Slavic accent." He paused, his hesitation barely noticeable before he added, "This might have something to do with your recent moves, but I'm not sure."
Nathan's expression grew thoughtful, his brows knitting together. "Probably..." He crossed his arms, his gaze distant for a moment. "The best move would be to deny any relations I might have with the company, but..."
He trailed off, his mind already working through possibilities. Then, as if coming to a decision, he continued, "But I think I should meet this old lady. See who sent her and what she wants."
Rick's face betrayed a flicker of something—unease, maybe even concern—but he smothered it quickly, his features smoothing into a practiced calm before Nathan could catch it. "Come on then," Rick said, his voice steady. "I'll take you to the office building."
Nathan nodded, placing the sniper rifle securely on the workbench before following Rick out of the storage unit. The door clanged shut behind them, and Nathan twisted the padlock into place with a sharp click.
As they walked toward Rick's car, Nathan glanced at him with a slight smirk. "By the way, I was at your old man's shop not long ago."
Rick glanced sideways at Nathan, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "Yeah? What'd you think?"
Nathan chuckled softly. "The place is still a mess. He's got enough broken down junk crammed in there to make a scrap yard jealous."
Rick laughed, a genuine sound that eased the tension between them. "That's him. Phineas Mason, king of organized chaos. If you didn't trip over three gadgets on your way in, he'd say he's doing something wrong."
Nathan smirked, shaking his head. "He did mention you. Said you never call."
Rick rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the faint grin. "Yeah, yeah. He knows where to find me. Let's just get this over with."
They climbed into Rick's car, the faint hum of the engine cutting through the quiet as they drove off into the city.
...
Nathan arched an eyebrow as Rick pressed the button for the 6th floor in the elevator. He leaned casually against the back wall, his expression skeptical. "Why are we heading to the training grounds instead of the office?"
Rick turned to him with an unreadable expression, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. "Because that's where the client is."
Nathan frowned, a mix of curiosity and irritation creeping into his voice. "What's an old lady doing in the training grounds?"
Rick's lips twitched, betraying the faintest hint of a smile. "I never said she was an old lady."
Nathan's frown deepened. "I'm pretty sure you did."
Rick's smile broke through as he grinned at Nathan, clearly enjoying himself. "Nope. I said 'gray-haired,' not 'old.'"
Nathan shot him an annoyed look. "Do I need to go over the dictionary definition of 'gray-haired' with you right now?"
Rick adopted a mock-thoughtful expression, tapping his chin as if deep in consideration. "Now that I think about it... did I say gray-haired? You know I'm color-blind."
Nathan sighed, the realization dawning on him. "Since when?" he muttered, shaking his head at the obvious setup.
Before Rick could offer another cheeky retort, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Nathan stepped forward, his attention immediately drawn to the wide, open space of the training grounds.
The air smelled faintly of sweat and rubber mats, and the muffled sound of fists striking flesh echoed through the room. In the center of the space, under the stark glow of overhead lights, a woman was moving like a silver streak through a group of five men.
Nathan's eyes narrowed as he took her in. Long silver hair cascaded down her back, shimmering like threads of moonlight as she ducked, weaved, and struck with precision. She wore a tight silver combat suit that clung to her athletic frame, its material gleaming faintly with an almost futuristic sheen.
But it wasn't just her that caught his attention—it was her opponents. The five men surrounding her weren't just random combatants. They were soldiers, men Nathan recognized immediately. Rangers, like him. Men he'd served with, men who'd fought alongside him in the harshest of conditions.
And she was dismantling them.
One man lunged, throwing a wild punch, and the woman sidestepped with effortless grace, driving a knee into his midsection and sending him crumpling to the ground. Another came at her from behind, but she spun on her heel, her silver hair arcing like a whip as she delivered a sharp elbow strike to his temple. He staggered and fell.
The remaining three didn't fare any better. Within seconds, they too were on the ground, groaning in defeat.
Nathan's lips pressed into a thin line as he watched her straighten, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Her movements were precise, controlled—too controlled. She wasn't just skilled; she was trained at a level that surpassed even his former comrades.
Rick stepped out of the elevator beside him, his tone laced with amusement. "Well? Ready to meet your 'old lady'?"
Nathan shot him a look, muttering under his breath, "You really enjoy this, don't you?"
Rick shrugged with a grin. "Only a little."
Nathan shook his head lightly, resigned, and stepped onto the sparring ground. The woman noticed his approach, a faint smile gracing her otherwise stoic features. She bent to pick up a fur coat draped over a nearby chair, as silver as her hair, and draped it over her shoulders before walking toward him.
She spoke first, her voice smooth and sharp in Russian. "Давно не виделись, Натан."
(It's been a while, Nathan.)
Nathan cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable, before replying in kind.
"Действительно, давно. Рад вас видеть, мисс Саблинова."
(A while indeed. It's good to see you, Miss Sablinova.)
The woman, Silvija Sablinova—better known as Silver Sable—frowned slightly, her features darkening at the formal way he addressed her. Her composure, however, remained steady as she responded.
"Я вижу, ты хочешь сразу к делу, так что я не буду тратить время. Иностранец снова появился. Ты поможешь мне покончить с ним."
(I see you want to get straight to business, so I won't waste time. The Foreigner has appeared again. You will help me put him down.)
Nathan's face remained impassive, his tone dry as he replied. "Мне не нравится вмешиваться в семейные дела. Если хочешь разобраться с бывшим мужем, найди адвоката.
(I don't like meddling in people's family affairs. If you want to deal with your ex-husband, maybe find a lawyer.)
Silvija didn't flinch at his refusal, her calm demeanor unshaken as she countered. "У него есть клинок Мурамаса, который ты искал."
(He has the Muramasa blade you were searching for.)
Nathan's eyes flickered, betraying a trace of interest, though his face remained unreadable. The weight of Silvija's words hung in the air for a moment before he shifted, breaking the tension by switching to English.
"I'm guessing he's got a contract on someone with a healing factor?" His tone was sharp, calculated.
Silvija gave a curt nod, her silver hair glinting faintly under the overhead lights. "Yes. A man named Logan. They call him the Wolverine. This blade—if the stories are true—is the only thing that can kill him."
Hearing Logan's name, Nathan suppressed a groan, though the tension in his temples betrayed him. He didn't know Wolverine personally, but he knew of him—a dangerous variable in any situation. The man's reputation preceded him, painting him as a walking powder keg, unpredictable and deadly.
"Of course, it just had to be the Wolverine," Nathan muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. After a moment of quiet deliberation, he exhaled heavily and straightened. "Alright, brief me on the details, and we'll make a plan."
Silvija allowed a faint, approving smile to touch her lips, though her eyes remained as steely as ever. "I thought you might see reason."
Nathan shook his head lightly but said nothing further. The faint echoes of their voices lingered as they moved deeper into discussion, their words carrying the weight of preparation for what was sure to be a dangerous mission.
...
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