That morning, a fresh snowfall had draped everything in a pristine white sheet.
On the mansion’s rooftop, Thomson stood with four men posted along the perimeter. Each had a sniper rifle braced in gloved hands, scanning every direction with vigilant eyes.
At the security checkpoints, guards in heavy coats and woolen caps held their weapons at the ready while Chandler moved between them, calmly issuing instructions.
Inside the security room, Carl sat before a bank of monitors, watching the live feeds from every camera. Every so often, he spoke into the Bluetooth device at his ear, his voice clipped and efficient as he relayed orders.
If you climbed higher into the house, you’d find Greyson in his bedroom, standing before the tall mirror.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2SnR7rke6f
He ran a brush through his hair, trying to tame it into place.
His eyes bore the weary shadows of a sleepless night.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZD3YJXPj3K
His expression was serious, set in the quiet focus he wore like armor.
Setting the brush down, he reached for his watch on the bedside table, fastening it around his wrist.
Without pause, he stepped out of the room.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdqhNyByAeG
Descending the stairs, he rolled up the sleeves of his black dress shirt to just below his elbows—revealing strong, veined forearms that flexed with each movement.
He walked straight to the dining hall.
Lena was already seated at the table, a quiet presence amid the bright hush of morning.
As Greyson pulled out the head chair and sat down, his stern composure softened in an instant.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiJnTbuRNU0
He offered her a warm, unguarded smile.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice lower than usual, a little rough from the cold.
Lena looked up, and for a heartbeat, her gaze caught on him.
The black dress shirt suited him so effortlessly, it almost seemed as if the color had been created for him alone. No tie, just that immaculate black fabric hugging the breadth of his shoulders and chest.
His hair was neatly styled now, though a few strands insisted on falling over his forehead as he leaned over his breakfast.
Greyson in black always looked striking—like a figure carved out of something unyielding and dark.
He really is… quite handsome, Lena admitted to herself, a reluctant little confession that warmed her cheeks as she quietly watched him.
Even though he could feel Lena’s gaze on him, Greyson didn’t look up. He quietly spread jam across the toast, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Without raising his head, he spoke in a tone that was casual—almost amused.
“Does black really suit me so much?”
Then, lifting his eyes, he looked straight at her with that faint, teasing glint.
Lena was so startled by the question that she fumbled for words, her gaze darting around the dining hall as if searching for an escape. Her face flushed a deep red.
“W-what…what do you mean?” she stammered.
Greyson rested his elbows on the table and, taking a bite of toast, studied her with the unhurried attention that only made her fluster more.
“You were watching me for quite a while,” he said, his voice smooth and matter-of-fact. “I thought maybe…I looked good today.”
Lena immediately looked everywhere but at him—at the dishes, the tall windows, the cutlery—her blush spreading all the way to her neck.
Why is he staring at me like that? she thought in a silent panic, trying desperately not to meet his eyes.
Greyson, meanwhile, was quietly observing the way her expression kept shifting: the way she flushed over a single teasing remark, the way she kept avoiding his gaze.
He almost laughed—but instead, he pressed his lower lip between his teeth to keep it in, only allowing himself the faintest smile.
Finally, he stood and straightened his cuffs, his expression slipping back into composed calm.
“I’m leaving,” he said lightly. “I may be late coming back tonight.”
He had nearly reached the doorway when Lena’s voice—small but insistent—broke through the quiet and stopped him in place.
“You’re…going to collect that evidence, aren’t you?”
Greyson turned his head to look at her. Guilt flickered in his throat before he forced it away.
“Yes,” he answered simply.
Lena’s eyes softened. “Be careful.”
He nodded once. A parting glance—something between gratitude and something harder to name—and then he took the coat a guard held out to him, shrugged into it, and stepped outside.
Out on the lawn, Chandler came briskly toward him.
“Director,” Chandler reported, “security is fully active. No mistakes will be made.”
Greyson swept his gaze across the grounds—the rooftop, the perimeter, the tree line. Up on the roof, Thomson caught his eye and gave him a thumbs-up to confirm everything was clear.
Greyson turned back to Chandler.
“No one goes in or out,” he ordered calmly, “and if anyone insists—call me immediately.”
“Roger,” Thomson called down from above.
Just then, the driver pulled the car around and stepped out to open the rear door. Greyson climbed in without another word, and the car rolled forward through the towering gates.
Three black security vehicles fell into formation around him—two in front, one behind—as they pulled away down the long drive toward the waiting city.
Inside the Agency
That morning, the agency was far from its usual routine.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGcB174AJZZ
It would be more accurate to say—someone had deliberately unsettled it.
Deep underground in the weapons vault, dozens of operatives in bulletproof vests were preparing for deployment.
Men moved in disciplined silence, checking and rechecking their guns. One by one, each operative lifted their weapon and filed into line with a heavy finality.
In that vast armory, despite the sheer number of people, the only sounds were the dull thuds of combat boots and Nico’s measured voice giving instructions here and there.
They had been trained never to raise their voices, never to waste a second.
Two squads of ten men each—every one of them battle-hardened, highly skilled, and absolutely unafraid to die.
When word came that Greyson had arrived, the entire hall fell into an almost tangible silence.
Nico stepped aside, folding his hands behind his back.
At the threshold, Greyson appeared—his posture composed, hands clasped behind him, his gaze sweeping every face with a quiet authority that needed no explanation.
He studied each operative with the same unblinking focus—checking their weapons, their stance, their readiness.
One squad carried AK-47s, the other squad sniper rifles.
When he had assessed them all, Greyson spoke.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3UKrreKB2d
His deep, commanding voice carried across the hall like a blade:
“Team A will accompany me to the target area,” he announced. “Unit B—snipers—you will cover us from a distance. If we are engaged, your priority is to extract me and Team A safely. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” came the crisp chorus of voices.
Greyson gave a single nod.
“Then let’s move.”
That was all it took.
The men filed out in disciplined precision, climbing into the waiting black vans.
Greyson reached for a gun and slipped it into the back waistband of his trousers, then walked outside.
Instead of his usual vehicle, he climbed into a heavy jeep, settling into the front passenger seat.
He laid his rifle across his lap, adjusted his sunglasses over his eyes, and gave a silent nod.
The engine started.
And behind his jeep, three armored vans rumbled forward—carrying with them twenty men trained to kill and die on command.
One after another, they advanced across the snow without making a single footfall louder than a breath.
Each man carried his gun in a steady, ready grip, eyes scanning every shadow, every drift of white for the smallest sign of movement.
In the lead walked Greyson, his dark silhouette purposeful against the pale expanse.
Behind him, the rest of his team followed in disciplined formation—some walking close at his heels, others fanning out just far enough to cover the flanks.
Deliberately, Greyson hadn’t told anyone the exact location of their objective.
Even the snipers had been positioned where they could see the entire perimeter—where they’d have a clear line of sight to cover every possible angle but wouldn’t know precisely which point Greyson intended to breach.
And now, as their boots sank noiselessly into the thick blanket of snow, twenty men moved as a single organism—silent, watchful, deadly—following Greyson’s lead into the waiting unknown.
Snow clung in thick layers even to the trees; it had covered everything, smothering all shapes beneath its silent weight.
Greyson advanced with his rifle in hand, every movement measured and intent.
This was the same place—this very stretch of ground—where Lena had been shot.
She’d told him she’d come from the right side.
Trusting his instincts, Greyson angled his path in that direction.
Dark sunglasses shielded his eyes.
Over a black shirt and matching black trousers, he wore a dark brown sheepskin flying jacket that looked almost out of place in the pristine white, but on him—tall, broad-shouldered, composed—it only made him more striking.
Without a doubt, he was a strong man.
And with that grave, controlled expression, he looked impossibly handsome.
Outside the mansion’s massive front gates, an older man—who, despite his age, was still impressively fit from years of working out—was locked in an argument with Chandler.
From the upper parapet, Thomson squinted down at them through his scope, grumbling under his breath,8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0ntEwh3AJR
“What the hell are they arguing about so much?”8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUvVYE15kLa
He adjusted his sniper rifle, peering for a clearer look.
Meanwhile, in the security room, Carl was sprawled comfortably in his chair, legs propped up on the table, blissfully relaxed. Before him, all the mansion’s surveillance feeds flickered across the screens—every camera displaying a different angle.
Every now and then, he dipped his chopsticks into the takeaway box resting in his lap, happily slurping noodles. Out of everyone, he had landed the cushiest job, and he was absolutely determined to enjoy it.
A short while ago, when he’d left another guard in his place so he could step out to collect his food order, Chandler had unleashed a colorful barrage of curses at him—and Thomson had nearly drooled off the parapet laughing at both of them.
Even now, replaying their faces in his mind, Carl felt a deep, personal satisfaction.
If you stepped back out to the main gate, you’d find Chandler trying to reason with the suited man standing opposite him—briefcase in hand, polite but persistent.
Chandler was waving his arms emphatically, voice tinged with desperation:8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsWg5VuClbi
“Look, sir, please try to understand—Director has gone out on extremely urgent business. He gave very clear instructions: absolutely no one is to enter in his absence. So tell me, how can I possibly let you inside?”
The older gentleman replied gently,8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLrunH5QtRf
“Son, I do understand your position—but the company is losing ground by the day. I’ve been searching for Miss Lena for a long time. I’ve only just learned she’s here. I promise—I just need a few minutes to speak with her, and then I’ll leave.”
Chandler looked about ready to cry.
Then suddenly, he remembered Carl, who was no doubt sitting inside, stuffing his face.
He sighed and said,8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Kob08pQeU
“Please…just come back when the Director returns. I’ll even let him know you came by so you don’t have any trouble next time.”
He stopped just short of folding his hands in apology—though his tone made it clear that was his next step.
The uncle spread his arms, leaning forward as if to plead:8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWDvXiHyt8C
“Search me if you must—look, I have nothing! Just…please let me speak with her, I’d be so grateful.”
And before Chandler could react, the old man actually sat down right there on the ground, flipped open his briefcase, and spread out its contents to prove his sincerity.
“See? Nothing—absolutely nothing. Please, just a conversation…that’s all.”
Chandler was flustered. He placed both hands on his hips, glanced around in exasperation, clearly weighing his options.
Finally, with a resigned sigh, he picked up the man’s suitcase.
Seeing this, the uncle hurriedly stood up, brushing off his suit jacket, already thinking with relief:8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5cwWtQWZuM
“Ah—finally. Looks like this little performance paid off. He’s about to let me in.”
But before he could celebrate, Chandler calmly handed the briefcase back to him, stepped aside to point a stiff arm toward the wide-open road, and said in the driest tone imaginable:
“Please. I’d be obliged if you would leave.”
He looked for all the world like a five-star hotel porter politely showing a guest the exit.
The uncle glared at Chandler, fuming, loosening his tie knot in frustration as he stalked away, muttering curses under his breath.
A little farther ahead, the trees opened onto a small clearing—just a wide patch of ground covered in the same thick white blanket of snow. Sparse trees ringed the area, but in the center lay an exposed space like a silent stage.
Greyson advanced, scanning every corner with sharp, deliberate glances. His eyes settled on a large boulder. Fixing his gaze on it, he turned his head slightly and said in a low command:
“Cover this area. Keep your eyes open.”
At his words, the shooters immediately spread out in all directions, guns readied, their movements swift but silent. Two of them came to stand on Greyson’s left and right as a shield.
Greyson pointed toward the heavy boulder.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXcIDVBtqnW
“Move this stone.”
The two men slung their rifles across their backs and stepped forward.
Greyson was just thinking—How did Lena manage to lift something this big and hide evidence under it?—when the air split with a sudden crackle of gunfire.
Panicked birds exploded upward from the trees, and the quiet, heavy atmosphere shattered like glass.
The two guards who had reached for the boulder jerked violently as bullets slammed into their shoulders. Another three or four men were hit in their legs and arms, dropping into the snow with pained grunts.
Greyson and the remaining shooters dove behind the nearest trees, flattening themselves against the trunks. Every rifle came up, fingers poised on triggers, and they leaned out just enough to catch a glimpse of the direction the attack had come from.
Greyson checked his own rifle, slipped off his sunglasses, and hooked them casually onto his shirt collar. His mouth curved into a small, cold smile as he rested his finger on the trigger.
“Well,” he murmured to himself, his voice a lethal calm, “let’s begin. It’s been a while since I’ve hunted enemies.”
Then, raising his voice so every man could hear, he barked:
“Don’t let them reach that boulder. I want every bullet in your guns inside those bastards’ bodies. If anyone has ammo left by the end of this, I’ll deal with you personally.”
A chorus of fierce voices answered as one:8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwzmeTSEw5d
“Roger, boss!”
And with that, the entire forest erupted in the deafening roar of gunfire.
From the opposing treeline, masked figures unleashed a relentless rain of bullets.
Meanwhile, farther back, Greyson’s Team B—who were stationed as snipers—were scrambling in confusion. They flipped their rifles over and inspected them with frantic hands, shouting over the din:
“Why aren’t these firing? What the hell is wrong with them?”
One by one, their worried, bewildered gazes met.
Finally, they hurled the useless rifles aside. Hands diving into their pockets, they drew their backup Glock pistols, checked the magazines, and cocked them in unison.
And then, as if on cue, they all broke into a sprint, charging forward to join Greyson in the line of fire.
Their sniper rifles had failed them—but it didn’t matter. These men had been trained by Greyson himself: drilled to fight with whatever weapon was in their hands, and to never, ever flinch from death.
And so, sprinting across the snow, they were already shouting to each other with a kind of fierce exhilaration:
“Come on—let’s see who racks up the most kills today!”
They were betting, competing, racing to reach their director’s side in the heart of the ambush.
Guns clutched tight, Team B’s men were racing toward Greyson. The distance between them wasn’t all that far—but they had only just crossed part of it when a fresh wave of masked attackers surged out to cut them off.
A bullet slammed into one guard’s arm, spinning him sideways. Instantly, the rest dove behind trees, pressing their backs to the rough bark as gunfire cracked all around them.
Meanwhile, Greyson and his shooters were holding the line with deadly precision, cutting down any enemy who tried to get near the boulder. Anyone advancing into range became a target for Greyson’s rifle.
Greyson’s eyes swept his surroundings, reading every movement, every threat. Between ragged breaths, he pressed a finger to the Bluetooth device clipped to his ear and snarled:
“Team B—are you all drunk? Why the hell haven’t you given us cover fire yet?”
From behind the trees, one of the men’s strained voices crackled back:
“Sir—our sniper rifles have been sabotaged. We were trying to reach you to help, but a group of masked hostiles intercepted us. We’re fighting our way through—”
“Fuck…fuck…fuck…” Greyson cursed under his breath, swapping out his magazine with practiced speed.
Then he roared, his voice raw and thunderous over the comm:
“Put everything you’ve got into this. If we die today, we die with honor!”
In the clearing, one masked man was trying to crawl forward toward the boulder. Greyson pivoted, sighted, and put a bullet straight through his skull. The man dropped lifeless into the snow, while his companion fell to his knees in panic.
From the tree line, another bullet sliced past Greyson—skimming across his bicep. Flesh tore open in a splash of blood.
But he didn’t even flinch.
Instead, he pivoted coldly and unloaded half a magazine into the attacker who’d fired the shot, cutting the man down before he could duck.
Everywhere, the ground was littered with blood and spent shell casings.
This stretch of forest had become a war zone.
On the other side, Team B was fighting with everything they had, but the masked assailants were too many—wave after wave pushing them back.
The only stroke of luck was that so far, miraculously, none of the team had taken a fatal hit. The masked attackers were clearly highly trained themselves, skilled enough to pin Team B down without reckless mistakes.
The team’s temporary leader pressed a hand to the Bluetooth device at his ear and called out, his voice tense:
“Sir—these men are holding us here. They outnumber us badly. We won’t be able to reach you in time!”
Greyson heard him, jaw tight, and just as he pivoted to fire again—
—a bullet ripped through his shoulder, punching into flesh and tearing a searing line of agony straight through him.
His mind blanked out for a heartbeat. The pain was ferocious, exploding in white-hot waves across his nerves.
But even then, he didn’t stop firing.
Blood trickled down his arm. Several others in his team were wounded now, gritting their teeth to stay upright as they returned fire.
Greyson shook his head hard, trying to clear the fog creeping into his vision. Everything was blurring, the outlines of trees and enemies melting together. His aim was slipping.
And yet—he kept squeezing the trigger, one shot after another.
In that moment, he didn’t see the masked man finally reach the boulder.
Didn’t see him grab hold and start shoving it aside.
The boulder was massive—too big for a bullet to punch through. Once the attacker ducked behind it, the gunfire couldn’t touch him.
Greyson’s breath came ragged, blood pouring down his side, the world slowly dissolving into haze.
But even half-blind, half-conscious—he refused to stop fighting.
The masked man shifted the boulder just enough to claw into the frozen dirt with his gloved hands.
In moments, he unearthed a small bag wrapped in mud-stained cloth. He tore it open and looked inside:
Two or three USB drives.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1N7lImZIo0
A single CD.
His breath hitched—this was what they’d come for.
He zipped the bag closed, tossed it back toward one of his comrades, and pressed a finger to the comm in his ear.
“We’re pulling out,” he announced coldly. “Evidence secured. I repeat—everyone fall back. We have the evidence.”
Slowly, methodically, they began to retreat.
Across the clearing, Greyson’s team felt rage boiling in their chests.
One by one, they broke cover—stepping out from behind trees with no thought for their own safety. They unleashed desperate volleys of gunfire at the masked men disappearing into the snow.
“Fall back—fall back, damn it!” Greyson bellowed hoarsely, his voice shredding through the comms as he clutched his bleeding shoulder.
“There’s no point now—get behind cover!”
Some of the men, red-faced with fury, kept surging forward, firing blindly.
“Stop!” Greyson roared, his throat raw. “I said don’t advance—hold your position!”
He sucked in a ragged breath, his vision dimming.
“They’ve rigged the approach with explosives—move any closer, and your bodies will be in pieces!”
At last, the men halted, staring helplessly through the drifting gun smoke.
They could only watch—fists clenched, hearts pounding—as the masked attackers melted into the trees with the evidence.
And there was nothing left to do but feel the bitter weight of failure settle over the clearing.
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa2QSqhiu43
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