Through the dark, cloud-veiled sky, the moon cast its ethereal silver glow over the sprawling wilderness. The dense, rolling forests lay silent beneath the faint illumination, a landscape suspended in quiet serenity. Heavy, fragrant scents of damp earth and resinous pine hung in the cool air like an incense woven by nature itself. The whisper of a gentle breeze brushed softly through branches, rustling leaves in delicate harmony, while somewhere distant, an owl's low, melancholy call resonated, adding a ghostly echo to the tranquil night.
For a long while, the woods basked in this solemn peace. Then, with a sudden intrusion that fractured the calm, came the crunching of gravel beneath heavy tires. Twigs and brittle foliage snapped audibly beneath the measured advance of an unmarked vehicle, which moved stealthily along the winding dirt path. Its headlights were dark, rendering the vehicle nearly invisible, a prowling shadow against shadows. Only a faint, rhythmic pulse of red and blue lights from within, emanating softly from a muted police radio, revealed the car's true intent and hidden authority.
Inside, tension settled thickly. Two men sat quietly, their faces tight with unspoken concentration, eyes fixed firmly on the path ahead. Their expressions were illuminated briefly by the subdued flickers from the radio, revealing flashes of stern, watchful resolve.
In the driver's seat sat Bruce—a mountain of a man, imposing and ruggedly sculpted. His broad shoulders strained against the snug fabric of a plain white T-shirt, its short sleeves highlighting his muscular arms. A bulletproof vest stretched across his broad chest, emblazoned starkly with "POLICE," signaling authority and danger. Curiously, he wore dark sunglasses even at this late hour—a personal trademark which lent an enigmatic air to his otherwise blunt appearance. His jeans were faded and snug, wrapped around powerful legs; his running shoes, though somewhat scuffed from regular use, represented one of his few expensive indulgences and pressed firmly on the pedals with assured control.
Frank, slightly leaner yet equally formidable, occupied the passenger seat. His sharp, angular features were partially hidden beneath the shadow cast by a black baseball cap pulled low over his brow. His eyes, vivid and perceptive, scanned every detail as he sat holding a rifle comfortably in his grasp, practiced hands resting lightly upon the weapon. Spare magazines were methodically secured to his tactical vest, each placed with practiced, disciplined precision—remnants of his former military days, now carried forward into his role as a police officer.
The electric engine emitted a low, barely audible hum as it carried them deeper into the woodland stillness. Suddenly, ahead of the vehicle, movement stirred in the underbrush—a small rat, startled awake by the unnatural presence, dashed frantically across the dirt road. Panic surged through the tiny creature as it desperately sought the sanctuary of its nearby burrow, oblivious to the looming danger of approaching wheels.
In that instant, Frank's eyes widened, reflexive alarm jolting through him. He sat upright abruptly and shouted, "Oh, holy shit! Stop!"
Bruce, ever alert and responsive, reacted instantly—his large foot slammed down sharply onto the brake pedal. Tires ground against the gravel path, and the vehicle jerked violently to a halt, mere inches from the petrified, quivering rodent frozen beneath the car's shadow.
Silence fell sharply between them, broken only by the soft ticking of the cooling engine. Bruce turned slowly, pulling down his sunglasses with exaggerated incredulity, his deep, gravelly voice edged with irritation, yet tinged by a note of amused disbelief.
"What the hell, Frank? Did you see something important?"
Frank exhaled slowly, tension leaving his posture as quickly as it had come. He shrugged casually, reaching over and giving Bruce a dismissive pat on his broad shoulder. "Ah, forget it. Just a rat. Cute little guy, though." He hesitated for a brief second, voice growing quieter and oddly wistful. "I dunno, man. Damn, I got a soft spot for furry rats."
The words, quietly muttered though they were, struck Bruce's sharp ears clearly. A sly, knowing grin curled slowly across his face as he pulled his sunglasses back up, eyes glinting mischievously beneath.
"No way," Bruce drawled with playful sarcasm, feigning astonishment. "Did I just hear what I thought I heard? The Frank Thompson—grizzled ex-military badass, hardest man I know—has a heart after all? Tell me I misheard you, Frank. You actually like cute, fuzzy little creatures now?"
Frank rolled his eyes dramatically, shaking his head with a low growl of annoyance. "Ahh, shut up, man," he muttered defensively. "I just didn't want that little bastard messing up our car, okay? Besides," he added, a touch softer now, eyes shifting slightly away, almost embarrassed, "Maybe the little guy's got a family back home, waiting or something."
Bruce's grin widened further, deepening into genuine warmth beneath the teasing. He chuckled softly, nodding knowingly. Frank might always portray the hard-as-nails exterior, reinforced by years of disciplined military rigor, but Bruce saw through that toughened armor clearly. Beneath Frank's hard shell remained the same fiercely loyal and quietly gentle soul he had always known, hidden from most but obvious to Bruce's careful eyes.
"Sure, Frank," Bruce finally relented gently, a warm undertone beneath his mockery. "No need to get defensive about it. Next time we see one, just give me a heads-up, huh? We wouldn't want any furry critter families losing their dads now, would we?"
Frank sighed, visibly exasperated, though his lips betrayed the faintest hint of a grudging smile. He didn't reply—there was no need. Bruce knew he'd won that small exchange.
With a shared, silent understanding passing between them, Bruce nudged the accelerator again, and the car resumed its stealthy crawl into the darkness. The quiet closed back around them once more, thickening into a comfortable, familiar silence—the kind that only two men who'd seen too much, endured too much, and yet found something worth protecting together, could share.
Above them, the moon continued its watchful vigil, silver light bathing the woods in quiet serenity once more, as though nothing had disturbed the night's timeless peace at all.
The car rolled forward again, quietly winding its way through the oppressive darkness of the dense forest. The tall trees seemed to crowd closer now, as though the woods themselves were guarding secrets better left undisturbed. Eventually, the forest parted like a dark curtain, and their destination loomed before them—a vast, imposing mansion of weathered wood, bathed in ghostly moonlight. Its grandeur had long faded, replaced by a heavy sense of foreboding, a dark elegance corrupted by misuse and decay.
The sprawling yard before the mansion was expansive, but any semblance of class or luxury had long been defiled. Rows upon rows of expensive black cars—Audis, BMWs, and Mercedes, all in various states of neglect—were parked haphazardly across the grounds. Missing plates and heavily tinted windows screamed criminal intent louder than any evidence could. It was a gangster's den hidden within a broken mansion, luxurious on the surface yet rotten to its core.
Both Bruce and Frank rolled down their windows, silently appraising the scene. Their eyes narrowed at the telltale evidence scattered carelessly across the ground: crumpled fast-food wrappers, crushed cigarette butts, empty liquor bottles, and discarded drug needles glinting sinisterly in the moonlight.
Bruce inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly through his nose as he scanned the yard. He could practically taste the filth in the air. He pushed his sunglasses higher, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel.
"This place reeks of scum," Bruce growled softly, his voice low and gravelly with contempt. "This isn't just another bust. These bastards are beyond redemption."
Frank's jaw tightened. "Yeah, you were right. This is the place. Let's call it in, Bruce—get the whole team out here. No way we're tackling this alone."
But Bruce, eyes hidden behind dark lenses, shook his head slowly. "Nah, we got this."
Frank turned sharply, incredulous. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Bruce nodded toward a large fuel storage tank resting ominously beside the mansion, nestled against a side wall and partially hidden behind tangled brush. Its metallic surface glistened dimly, beckoning them with destructive promise.
"See that fuel tank? One spark, and we put these guys down for good," Bruce said coldly. "Think about it. No costly arrests, no trials. We save taxpayers a fortune and send a message. We might even get ourselves promoted."
Frank's expression darkened sharply. "Are you serious, Bruce? You're talking about murder. We're officers of the law—not judge, jury, and executioner. You've gotta get your head straight, man."
Bruce turned sharply, sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to reveal his burning gaze. "Don't be soft, Frank. You've seen the shit these guys do. You really think they'll come quietly? Nah, they're armed and dangerous. Better to cut the head off the snake while we can."
Frank shook his head, eyes fierce yet pleading. "Bruce, come on. I get it—you hate these guys. But if we cross this line, we're no better than they are. Don't do this."
Bruce scoffed, shoving open his door decisively. "Stay here if you want, but I'm ending this."
Before Frank could argue further, Bruce stepped out, rounding quickly to the trunk. He lifted it open, grabbing an assault rifle and spare magazines. With swift and deliberate movements, he checked his weapon before starting toward the mansion, his stride purposeful and determined.
Frank cursed under his breath, feeling the burden of responsibility crush down on him yet again. He quickly followed suit, retrieving his own rifle and gear. His feet crunched on gravel as he caught up to Bruce.
"Goddamn it, Bruce," Frank hissed, voice tense with frustration. "You know I won't let you do this alone, but one day your reckless bullshit is gonna get us both killed."
Bruce chuckled, flashing a humorless grin. "Relax, Frank. Think of it this way—if we pull this off, you can finally take your wife somewhere nice. Hell, maybe even England or Scotland. Heard it's beautiful this time of year."
Frank sighed, shaking his head slightly. Even now, Bruce couldn't resist his rough-edged humor. "Yeah, funny. Just promise me you'll remember what I told you—if anything happens, I trust you to look after her. God knows she deserves better than being alone—or worse, ending up with some asshole."
Bruce grimaced slightly. "Enough with the death talk. I'm not letting you die on my watch. And yeah, your wife's hot as hell, but let's not get weird about it right now. Just watch my back—I'm going in."
With practiced stealth, Bruce advanced swiftly across the sprawling yard. He navigated carefully between rows of parked cars, crouching low and moving silently toward the large fuel tank near the mansion's side. Frank held back slightly, positioning himself strategically behind a parked SUV, his rifle trained on the dark entrance, eyes and ears alert for any hint of movement.
Reaching the fuel tank, Bruce swiftly slung his rifle across his back, pulling out a heavy-duty wrench he'd grabbed from the trunk. Kneeling quietly, he began twisting the tank's rusty valve. He turned slowly at first, careful to avoid noise—but the ancient metal protested loudly, issuing a high-pitched squeal with every turn.
Bruce clenched his jaw, cursing silently as sweat trickled down his forehead. Knowing stealth was now impossible, he quickened his movements, rapidly forcing the valve open despite the piercing noise. The valve grew looser, and a pungent odor of gasoline filled the air as a trickle began to escape, running down the tank's side.
Just as Bruce felt a rush of grim satisfaction, the mansion's heavy wooden front door suddenly burst open with a thunderous bang. The stillness shattered as shouts filled the air, echoing harshly across the yard. A dozen heavily tattooed gang members emerged, weapons drawn, yelling angrily into the night.
Frank cursed sharply from behind cover, raising his rifle instinctively. "Bruce, get down!"
Bruce flattened himself against the tank, heart hammering in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. He quickly twisted open the valve fully, gasoline now pouring freely onto the ground, pooling ominously at his feet.
Gunfire erupted from the mansion's porch, bullets whizzing overhead. Frank returned fire, short, controlled bursts echoing through the night, driving the gang members back momentarily. Bruce reached hurriedly into his vest pocket, pulling out a battered silver lighter. His fingers shook slightly as he flipped it open, sparking a flame to life.
Frank's voice pierced the chaos, urgent yet steady. "Bruce, hurry up! I can't hold them long!"
Bullets cracked against nearby metal and glass, splintering wood and shattering windows. Voices shouted wildly, threatening vengeance. Bruce took a deep breath, time seeming to slow around him. A strange clarity washed over him—the scent of gasoline, the sharp tang of adrenaline, Frank's voice shouting orders behind him.
"Frank," Bruce yelled back with a rough, defiant laugh, raising his voice over the rising chaos. "Get ready to run like hell!"
With fierce resolve, Bruce tossed the lighter toward the gasoline-soaked ground. Time stood still as the flame danced gracefully through the air, descending slowly, almost beautifully—
Then the world ignited.
A massive fireball erupted skyward, blossoming into a deafening explosion that rocked the mansion's foundation. The force hurled Bruce backward, the heat blistering his skin, and for a moment everything faded into blinding white light and roaring sound.
Frank shielded himself, ducking behind the vehicle as debris rained around him. When he dared look up, flames surged through the yard, consuming cars and mansion alike in an inferno that illuminated the night sky.
Ears ringing, Frank scrambled toward Bruce's prone form. Grabbing his friend's arm, he dragged him clear of the blaze, coughing and choking on thick smoke.
"Goddamn it, Bruce," Frank groaned hoarsely, checking quickly for injuries. "You absolute madman—what the hell were you thinking?"
Bruce laughed weakly, pain mingling with dark humor as he struggled upright. "Thinking? Who said I was thinking? C'mon, Frank... you know me better than that."
The mansion burned fiercely before them, a fiery testament to recklessness and defiance. Frank shook his head slowly, watching flames twist into the sky. He looked back at Bruce with exasperated affection.
"Next time," Frank sighed, "we call for backup."
Bruce coughed, grinning through soot and pain. "Yeah, next time."
Alerted by the sudden crash of the front door, Bruce immediately halted his work on the valve. He swiftly and silently moved toward the edge of the mansion, pressing his muscular frame against the cool, wooden siding. Peering cautiously around the corner, he carefully observed the source of the noise.
Standing unsteadily in the dim glow cast by the porch lights was a gang member—a young black man wearing nothing more than a pair of sagging boxer shorts. A shiny pistol protruded precariously from the waistband, a stark symbol of misplaced bravado. Bruce's trained eyes swiftly assessed the man's condition: the way he swayed slightly, the dull glaze in his eyes, the reckless confidence in his stance—definitely intoxicated, and likely high as well.
For a tense moment, Bruce wondered if the man had heard him struggling with the fuel valve. But before he could analyze the thought further, the man abruptly raised his voice, calling out to the emptiness of the night.
"You motherfuckers!" he shouted, his voice slurred and laced with bravado. "You better not be scratching up my ride! Sure, I didn't pay for it, but it's still mine! Come out, you sneaky motherfuckers—wherever you are!"
Bruce held his breath, silently cursing as the intoxicated man pulled the gun from his waistband, waving it clumsily in the air. He started walking toward Bruce's hiding place, his steps heavy and erratic, yet dangerously unpredictable.
"Hey! You hear me? I—I got a gun, okay? Don't fuck with me! I ain't no bitch—I'm a dangerous nigga! Besides, I don't do well with surprises! Now, where you all at?" the gang member shouted again, his voice echoing eerily through the darkened yard.
Bruce's pulse quickened. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he glanced towards Frank, who was crouched in the shadows behind one of the parked cars. He could just make out Frank's shape, rifle raised and aimed directly at the approaching gang member.
Panicked realization flooded Bruce as he instinctively reached for his earpiece to warn Frank. But his fingers brushed only empty air—he had left the damn thing back in the car. There was no way to signal Frank without giving away his position. Shooting now would wake up every armed criminal inside. They'd be overwhelmed, maybe even killed.
No, this had to be done quietly—just Bruce and his bare hands. Steeling himself, Bruce recalled his youth: years of MMA training, countless hours of brutal sparring, every fight he'd ever been in, whether in the ring or on the gritty streets. He took a slow, steady breath, his large fists tightening with anticipation.
The drunk gang member staggered even closer, now mere feet from Bruce's hiding place. The tension hung thick in the air, broken suddenly by the man's slurred announcement:
"Man, I gotta take a piss—huh? Ahhh…!"
Before the intoxicated criminal could finish, Bruce exploded from the shadows with a burst of powerful movement. He towered over the smaller man, a massive silhouette looming like an avenging spirit. The gang member's eyes widened with startled terror, the gun in his hand forgotten, dropping loosely to his side as he stood frozen, mouth agape.
Bruce didn't hesitate. He unleashed a devastating right hook with lethal precision. The force of the blow slammed violently into the gang member's jaw, sending a jarring crack echoing through the silence. Teeth shattered, blood flew from the man's mouth, and for an instant, he seemed almost suspended in mid-air. His eyes rolled back, consciousness fleeing him immediately. As the lifeless form dropped limply to the dirt, Bruce was already following through.
Bruce knelt swiftly, cupping the unconscious man's head with both large hands. A brief moment of unexpected solemnity washed over him—years of violence hadn't fully erased his humanity.
He murmured softly, almost reverently, "May the father of understanding have mercy on your soul, punk."
With swift, ruthless finality, Bruce twisted his hands, snapping the man's neck sharply—a complete rotation of 360 degrees. A slight twitch shuddered through the gang member's body, and then nothing. Bruce felt the life drain completely from the form beneath him.
He dropped the limp corpse to the ground, standing slowly, breathing deeply to steady his nerves. An unexpected pang of sadness crept over him. He stared silently at the lifeless figure at his feet, momentarily lost in thought. In this criminal, he saw a victim as well—someone shaped by poverty, violence, and a morally bankrupt society, much like Bruce himself had once been.
But Bruce's jaw clenched, his brief moment of empathy vanishing as quickly as it had come. No—everyone had choices. Society might shape a man, but in the end, the path he chose was his alone. This gang member had chosen his fate, and justice had been served swiftly and decisively. Bruce hardened himself once more, hatred and anger boiling deep within his chest, fueled by years of pent-up resentment and loss.
Then suddenly, a harsh shout pierced the night from the rear of the mansion:
"Hey! Who goes there?"
Bruce spun sharply, heart pounding. His eyes met those of a rough-looking white gang member, a redneck emerging from the back of the property. The man, holding a shotgun, was barely twenty meters away, staring directly into Bruce's face. Bruce froze in place, both men caught in a brief, shocked silence.
The gang member broke the standoff first, shouting, "Who the fuck are you!?"
But before Bruce could react, rapid gunfire erupted from behind. Frank opened fire, a swift burst echoing sharply through the night. Bruce dove instinctively to the ground, bullets whizzing dangerously close to his head, grazing the air above him. The redneck staggered backward, bullets punching violently into his chest. A cry of agony escaped his lips as he dropped lifelessly into the dirt, shotgun falling from his hands.
Silence returned momentarily, broken only by Bruce's heavy breathing. He shot an irritated glance toward Frank's position, shaking his head. They'd lost their chance at stealth, and things were about to get much worse.
In the mansion, frantic shouts and cries erupted as the occupants were awakened by gunfire. Lights flickered on, voices clamored loudly, and footsteps thundered toward doors and windows. Bruce grimaced, rising quickly, gripping his rifle with renewed determination. There was no turning back now—the mission had shifted abruptly from infiltration to survival.
Frank hurried from his hiding spot, joining Bruce at the corner of the mansion, his expression grim.
"You alright?" Frank asked, checking Bruce briefly for injuries.
Bruce nodded, his voice steady but grim. "Yeah. Nice timing, buddy. Real subtle."
Frank flashed him a grim, humorless smile. "Subtlety went out the window the moment you went for the neck snap, Bruce. Guess we're doing this your way now."
Bruce reloaded his rifle, the satisfying click echoing through the tension-filled night. "Damn right we are. Let's finish this."
As shouts from within the mansion intensified and figures began spilling out into the yard, weapons raised, Bruce and Frank exchanged one final glance. The quiet resolve and brotherly trust between them said everything that needed to be said.
Then, side by side, they charged forward into the chaos, weapons blazing, determined to see the job through to the bitter end.
Oh shit, that's not good.
That singular thought surged through Bruce's mind as, without warning, a series of blinding floodlights snapped on around the mansion. The darkness vanished instantly, replaced by harsh, white illumination that exposed every detail of the chaotic battlefield. He shielded his eyes instinctively as his pulse quickened with dread. He could hear a growing chorus of angry shouts erupting from inside the building, followed immediately by the deafening sound of countless feet scrambling across wooden floors and staircases.
Realizing there was no longer any point in subtlety, Bruce dashed back to the fuel tank. His hands—strong but shaking slightly with urgency—grasped the stubborn valve once again. This was their last chance. He knew deep down this explosion would be their only hope of escaping alive.
Behind him, Frank yelled desperately, his voice raw with urgency and panic. "Come on, Bruce! Forget the damn tank—we have to get out of here now!"
Bruce turned to yell back, but before he could utter a word, the mansion windows shattered violently, shards of glass spraying outward like glittering rain. Gunfire roared fiercely through the openings, bullets ripping mercilessly through the air and hammering the car behind which Frank had been sheltering. In seconds, the vehicle was reduced to a metallic shell riddled with holes, its metal frame punctured and twisted into something resembling Swiss cheese.
Bruce felt his heart seize with fear as he momentarily lost sight of Frank. He squinted desperately, shouting his friend's name into the chaos—but then his breath returned in a rush of relief as he saw Frank's agile figure darting away at the last possible moment, diving behind another nearby vehicle. Bullets chased him, ripping through the air and embedding themselves loudly in metal and earth, but Frank moved like a ghost, swift and elusive.
Bruce watched, heart pounding, as Frank continued his evasive maneuvers—moving swiftly from car to car, occasionally popping out from cover just long enough to return accurate bursts of fire. It was as if Frank's old military training had never left him. Bruce couldn't help but marvel at the speed, precision, and sheer determination of his friend under pressure.
But he quickly snapped out of it. He had a job to do. Gritting his teeth, Bruce twisted the fuel valve harder and faster. Finally, after an agonizing few moments, the rusted valve fully gave way, and gasoline burst forth in a steady, pungent stream. Relief surged through him—this was exactly the distraction they needed. He wanted to shout triumphantly, to let Frank know the plan was working. But just then, an angry chorus erupted from behind the mansion, followed instantly by bullets snapping through the air around him.
Bruce ducked low instinctively, pressing his body close against the now gasoline-spewing tank. Gunshots rang out relentlessly, several rounds clanging loudly off the metal above him. Peeking cautiously around the edge of the tank, he saw a fresh wave of gang members advancing boldly across the yard toward him.
The scene was surreal—like some twisted parody of those old war movies he and Frank used to enjoy over beers. But these weren't disciplined soldiers; these were disorganized, intoxicated criminals, charging recklessly forward without tactics or uniforms. Their half-naked forms ran wildly, some wearing boxers or sagging jeans, others shirtless or clad in stained tank tops. They shouted and cursed wildly, spraying bullets haphazardly from pistols, rifles, and even one hulking figure brandishing a heavy machine gun like a deranged amateur warlord.
Bruce exhaled sharply, knowing he had to act swiftly. Kneeling low, he raised his assault rifle to his shoulder, steadied his breath, and waited for the inevitable lull in their erratic gunfire. His moment came swiftly; the roar of weapons paused just briefly as the gang bangers collectively fumbled to reload. Seizing this precious window, Bruce leaned around the edge of his cover, calmly squeezed the trigger, and returned precise, controlled fire.
He wasn't just a cop. He was an American cop—trained, hardened, and ruthlessly efficient in combat. Each shot he fired found its mark with deadly accuracy. Three gangsters fell immediately, their bodies crumpling into the dirt as panic swiftly overtook their comrades. Bruce saw the wild terror in their eyes, the bravado draining instantly. They scattered like startled vermin, scrambling behind vehicles and fleeing around corners of the building as they blindly fired back.
Yet, while their shots were wildly inaccurate, their sheer volume pinned Bruce in place, bullets peppering the area around him in an endless hailstorm. Dirt kicked up violently around his feet, sparks danced off the fuel tank's metal skin, and Bruce could feel a wave of dread wash over him. He looked down at the gasoline pooling around his boots, realizing fully just how precarious his position had become. One stray spark, one bullet hitting the wrong spot, and he'd become a living torch.
Bruce's chest tightened, panic clawing at his throat, and for a fraction of a second he allowed himself to feel it—the gripping terror of being utterly trapped, exposed, and helpless.
But no—he shook himself sharply. He wasn't helpless. He was Bruce Williams, the toughest, craziest son of a bitch on the force. And he sure as hell wasn't about to die in a gasoline fire tonight.
With a roar of defiance, Bruce lunged sideways from behind the tank, diving desperately behind a nearby black sedan just as another hail of bullets screamed past him. The sedan shuddered as rounds pierced its windows and body, but for now, Bruce was safe—at least momentarily. He inhaled sharply, senses heightened, adrenaline electrifying his veins.
Across the yard, Frank kept fighting valiantly. He alternated between providing cover fire and staying hidden, each move calculated and purposeful, each shot precise. Bruce felt a wave of gratitude and respect wash over him; Frank had always had his back. And tonight, that loyalty might just save their lives.
But time was short. More gangsters appeared, emboldened by their numbers, and the relentless gunfire showed no signs of easing. Bruce knew he had mere seconds before they realized exactly how vulnerable he and Frank truly were.
Taking a quick, steadying breath, Bruce reached into his vest pocket. His fingers closed around the battered silver lighter, the cool metal feeling like a lifeline. If they wanted chaos, he'd give them chaos. This was their only chance—he had to ignite the gasoline spill now, or he and Frank would never escape alive.
He glanced toward Frank's position, yelling over the gunfire, "Frank! Get ready—it's about to get real hot!"
Frank caught his eye, understanding immediately. His expression was grim, yet resolved. He nodded sharply, bracing himself behind cover.
With grim determination, Bruce flipped open the lighter, sparks flashing and flames leaping brightly to life. He stared at the small, dancing flame for one fraction of a second, hesitating—not from fear, but from the enormity of what he was about to unleash.
Then, with a yell of defiance, Bruce tossed the lighter toward the gasoline pooling around the tank.
Flames erupted instantly, racing hungrily along the trail of fuel, an inferno blooming brightly in the night. For one breathtaking moment, silence overtook the battlefield, everyone staring in shocked awe at the growing fireball.
Then the explosion came—a deafening roar, thunderous and primal, ripping through the mansion's yard and sending a towering pillar of flame high into the sky. The blast wave knocked Bruce and Frank flat to the ground, debris raining down around them like hellfire.
Bruce coughed violently, ears ringing and vision blurry. But as he struggled back to his feet amid the smoke and chaos, a fierce, victorious smile crossed his face. They'd survived—for now—and he'd bought them the cover they needed.
"Frank!" he shouted hoarsely, staggering upright and shielding his face from the heat. "Come on—let's get the hell out of here!"
And together, through smoke, fire, and chaos, they ran—determined to escape and live another day.
To his right lay a tantalizing chance at survival—a line of parked cars, each promising shelter from the endless storm of gunfire. They were his best bet for getting out alive. But there was a glaring problem: the cars were at least six meters away, and Bruce, standing just under two meters tall and built like a tank, knew agility wasn't exactly his strong suit. He was a hulking presence, a giant target that screamed for enemy bullets to find their mark.
Bruce hesitated, eyeing the gap that now felt like a vast, deadly chasm. Could he even make it? His powerful muscles were built for brute force, not nimble sprints or graceful dives. Each muscle, each fiber of his body felt weighed down by sheer bulk. This wasn't a short dash—it was a gauntlet, a suicide run through open ground.
A grim thought flickered through his mind—maybe he could just ignite the gasoline right here, take these gangsters with him in a fiery blaze, and perhaps become some kind of martyr or hero. But the thought of dying now, of going out in an explosive inferno, didn't appeal to him. He wasn't religious; he didn't believe in paradise or any reward waiting beyond death. No, death would probably just be darkness and oblivion, and he wasn't ready to fade into nothingness yet.
Frustration mounting, he peered around the fuel tank again and squeezed off careful, deliberate shots. His aim was true; one gang banger collapsed to the ground, clutching his chest, and another tumbled behind a car, blood splattering the dirt. The taste of small victory spurred him into reckless bravado.
"Take that, you dirty hillbilly, street-licking, hood-spitting fucks!" Bruce roared, his voice hoarse with fury and adrenaline.
In response, an angry volley of bullets and harsh insults exploded back at him, like a hailstorm of metal and malice.
"Fuck you, pig!" shouted a voice filled with rage and desperation. "You're just jealous of our rides, you pathetic donut-eating bitch! You cops can't afford wheels like these!"
Bruce winced, feeling oddly wounded by the relentless verbal assault—even worse than the bullets raining down around him. His cover was tenuous at best, the fuel tank shuddering ominously with each impact. The gasoline pooled menacingly beneath him, the stinging scent burning his nostrils and reminding him sharply that every bullet increased the risk of his fiery demise.
Glancing quickly towards Frank, Bruce felt a pang of desperation. Frank was pinned behind another vehicle, desperately returning fire, unable to help. It was clear the burden of action rested solely on Bruce's broad shoulders. If he didn't move now, they'd both be dead soon.
In that moment of hesitation, a strange memory flashed vividly into Bruce's mind. A memory from just the night before. After a hard, grueling bodybuilding session at the gym, he'd sat alone, half-drunk on the couch. He remembered brooding about his girlfriend—probably cheating, definitely lying, that manipulative bitch Frank always warned him about. In frustrated distraction, he had accidentally hit the remote, and the TV flickered on to reveal something that unexpectedly captured his attention: a gymnastics competition.
Even amid the hail of gunfire, Bruce found his thoughts drifting back to those graceful, elegant athletes. He'd stared in drunken fascination at their incredible agility and seemingly effortless control, marveling at the sheer strength hidden within their slender forms. They had been so nimble, so beautifully precise. He remembered vividly one gymnast in particular—a young woman, perhaps twenty-four, with stunning curves and eyes the deepest shade of blue he had ever seen. Her movements were poetry in motion, a captivating display of power wrapped in grace and beauty.
Inspired by a drunken combination of awe and foolish bravado, he had even tried to mimic their moves on his living room floor, disastrously shattering his glass table in the process.
The memory sparked a wild, reckless idea. If he could somehow summon even a fraction of that girl's astonishing agility, perhaps he could evade these bullets—perhaps, just maybe, he could survive this impossible dash.
With newfound determination, Bruce swiftly took out his battered lighter, flicking it open and igniting a small, steady flame. Carefully, he placed it close to the gasoline trail, hoping it would buy him just enough time before the whole tank erupted into flames. This was his timer, his one chance at survival—or at least a chance at vengeance.
Steadying his breathing, Bruce fired several rapid shots at the gangsters, momentarily silencing their barrage. In that fleeting instant of quiet, he sprang into motion. Driven forward by desperate hope and inspired madness, Bruce lunged into a clumsy but determined gymnastics-style roll, envisioning the gymnast's graceful movements guiding him.
Bullets hissed through the air around him, crackling past his ears in slow-motion clarity. His heart thundered in his chest as he emerged from the roll, still miraculously unharmed. But as he rose to sprint, a sudden, brutal impact slammed into his face. Blood sprayed violently, and with numb shock, he realized his nose had just been blown clean off his face.
A surreal calmness enveloped him—no pain yet, only shock—as he forced his body forward. He was nearly there, just a meter from safety, when another bullet tore through his right thigh. His leg buckled instantly, sending him sprawling forward onto the rough dirt. He could no longer feel anything below his waist.
Yet Bruce crawled on, fueled purely by stubborn defiance and survival instinct. Another bullet punched mercilessly into his backside, carving a fiery path deep inside. All sensation abandoned his legs completely, leaving him to drag himself painfully forward using only his powerful arms, fingers clawing desperately at the gravel and dirt.
Bloodied, breath ragged from the gaping wound in his face, Bruce finally managed to drag himself behind the car, collapsing in pain-wracked exhaustion. His plan had been a desperate failure; he wasn't agile like the gymnast—he was just a big, lumbering cop, lucky to be alive purely due to his attackers' terrible marksmanship.
Underneath the battered vehicle, Bruce saw feet approaching—his attackers moving confidently toward him, ready to finish the job. He tightened his grip on his rifle, rage overpowering his pain and fear.
"You bastards won't take me that easily," he growled bitterly.
With calculated precision and sheer stubbornness, he aimed beneath the car and fired at their legs. Screams filled the air as he methodically dropped each approaching gangster, incapacitating them before silencing them permanently with carefully placed headshots.
One by one, they fell to the dirt—justice served swiftly and mercilessly from beneath the battered vehicle. Those still standing quickly retreated in panic, scrambling desperately behind cover, suddenly wary of this wounded but deadly adversary who refused to die easily.
Bruce allowed himself a brief moment of bitter satisfaction, adrenaline surging through his battered body. The battle wasn't over yet, but he'd bought himself precious seconds.
Clutching his wounds tightly, blood pooling beneath him, he gritted his teeth in fierce determination. He wasn't finished yet—he still had a job to do, a friend to protect, and a desperate need to survive just long enough to see these criminals pay for their crimes.
Above him, flames crept ever closer to the tanker. Soon it would explode, delivering justice and vengeance in a fiery spectacle.
Bruce drew a ragged breath, gripping his rifle tighter. This night wasn't over yet, and neither was he.
Pushing himself painfully upright against the battered car, Bruce let out a deep, guttural groan. Agony radiated through his body, his breath shallow and strained. His legs were numb, heavy and useless, while a sharp ringing filled his ears, drowning out the chaotic gunfire around him. The taste of blood—coppery and hot—filled his mouth, and he spat weakly, the crimson stain stark against his pale skin.
His eyes slowly drifted across the battle-torn yard to find Frank. To his relief and surprise, his partner was still holding his ground—ducking in and out from behind the cars, shouting defiant curses and firing precise shots. Frank's fierce determination and stubbornness brought an involuntary, pained smile to Bruce's lips.
But then his gaze fell upon his own mangled right leg, and the smile vanished. A gaping, ragged wound exposed the shattered bone beneath torn, blood-soaked fabric. Bruce grimaced, his head spinning as nausea clawed at his throat. There was no denying it—he was gravely wounded, and his odds of survival were slim.
His eyes drifted further, landing on the flickering flame of the lighter, slowly inching closer to the ever-growing pool of gasoline. With grim resignation, he tilted his head back, staring upwards into the starless night sky. Regret and quiet despair filled his chest as his thoughts turned inward.
So this is it, huh? he thought bitterly. Well, at least Frank's gonna survive. That's good enough for me. My life was shit anyway. Who'd even come to my funeral besides Frank? Maybe a few guys from the precinct, out of obligation rather than care.
The thought was bleak, but oddly comforting. He might not be remembered, but he'd done some good—saved a few lives, maybe made the world slightly better. That was enough. With a heavy sigh, Bruce closed his eyes, accepting the inevitability of his fate.
Suddenly, a strong grip seized his shoulder, pulling him sharply back from the brink of despair. Bruce opened his eyes in confusion, blinking rapidly until Frank's rugged face came into focus—lined with exhaustion, dirt, and fear, yet resolute and defiant.
"Hey! Stay with me, man!" Frank barked urgently, eyes fierce with determination. "You're not going out like this—not tonight, Bruce! We promised each other we'd see the UK together, remember? You always wanted to go see those castles and drink shitty beer. So, don't you dare die on me now, you stubborn bastard!"
Bruce forced out a weak, humorless chuckle, his voice raspy and weak. "Frank, I'm done. It's over, man. Leave me here. Go, or we're both gonna die."
Frank ignored his protests completely. With a grunt of stubborn defiance, he grabbed hold of Bruce's tactical vest and began to drag him backward across the debris-littered ground. "No goddamn way! We're partners, Bruce, remember? Where you go, I go. We made that promise, and I plan to keep it—even if it kills me."
Hearing those words, Bruce felt tears sting his eyes, his throat tightening painfully. He knew he was finished, and the thought of dragging Frank down with him was unbearable. Desperately, he made another weak attempt to convince his friend.
"Frank, listen to me... think about your wife. You swore to her—on that altar, in front of God and everyone—that you'd stay together forever. Don't throw your life away for me. Just go!"
Frank's eyes narrowed, filled with unwavering resolve as he continued pulling Bruce toward safety. "Yeah, but before that, I made a promise to you when we were just kids, remember? We said we'd always stick together, brothers for life. I'm not breaking that vow now—not ever!"
Bruce's heart clenched painfully. He had no words left. The realization that Frank still remembered—and honored—that childish promise, after all these years, was almost too much to bear. Through blurred vision and the haze of pain, Bruce gritted his teeth, raised his trembling rifle, and opened fire once more, determined to defend Frank to his last breath.
Their situation worsened by the second. The gang members, sensing victory, closed in like vultures. Frank paused his desperate dragging to return fire, fiercely holding them off as Bruce, on his back, fired his rifle beneath the car, taking out enemy legs and ending their violent lives with precise headshots.
But suddenly Frank let out a sharp cry, falling heavily onto one knee. Bruce's heart skipped a beat as he saw blood blossom on Frank's left shoulder.
"Frank!" he shouted weakly, panic rising. "Just leave me!"
But Frank, stubborn as ever, shook his head sharply. Gritting his teeth through excruciating pain, he grabbed Bruce again with his wounded arm and continued dragging him toward cover, firing wildly with his good arm to keep the enemy at bay.
Bullets continued to rain down mercilessly. Frank staggered as another shot struck his bulletproof vest, knocking him back painfully. Bruce's rifle shook violently, his vision growing dimmer as blood loss began to overtake him completely. His arms felt impossibly heavy, each breath a monumental effort.
They had barely moved five meters from their original cover. It was hopeless. Their ammunition was dwindling, their strength rapidly fading. Bruce's consciousness teetered on the edge of oblivion as the world blurred around him.
And then, through his failing sight, Bruce saw it—the gasoline finally reached the flame. His heart froze in his chest as the spark ignited into a fierce blaze, instantly racing toward the tanker.
"Frank!" Bruce croaked in desperation, voice weak and choked with blood. "Run! It's gonna blow!"
But Frank, his face set with grim determination, simply shook his head and turned back toward Bruce. Ignoring the danger completely, he surged forward, dropping his rifle and lunging desperately to Bruce's side. With his good arm, he wrapped himself around Bruce protectively, shielding him with his own body.
"No!" Bruce shouted weakly, tears spilling freely down his face. But it was too late.
The world around them exploded in an inferno of flame and blinding white heat. The deafening roar of the explosion drowned out all sound, enveloping both men in a storm of fire and debris. For a moment, Bruce felt a sharp, stinging pain wash over his body. But then, amidst the chaos and destruction, he saw Frank clearly, his friend's bloodied face illuminated by the searing light. Frank smiled through the pain, a smile full of courage, friendship, and final acceptance.
"You're not alone, brother," Frank whispered gently, his voice barely audible over the roaring flames. "Wherever you go, I go."
Then, in an instant, Frank's face vanished, swallowed by blinding white brilliance.
A profound silence followed the explosion, deep and absolute, a stillness beyond time or sensation. Bruce felt no pain, no sorrow, just an overwhelming calm—a peaceful darkness washing gently over him, swallowing him whole.
His last conscious thought was not of despair, nor of regret, but of gratitude. He had not died alone. Frank had honored his promise, right to the very end.
And for Bruce, that was enough.
***
Bruce drifted helplessly through a vast, impenetrable darkness. He felt no weight, no pain—only a profound and unsettling emptiness, as though floating in an endless, silent ocean. The sensation was strange, foreign, utterly devoid of anything familiar or comforting. He struggled to find clarity, his mind grasping desperately for a sense of self, a sense of existence. But he felt detached, suspended in this surreal void.
Then, in the infinite expanse of darkness, he noticed a faint pinpoint of gentle, inviting light. It shimmered softly, like a distant star flickering at the far end of a long, shadowy tunnel. Bruce focused on it instinctively, drawn by an unknown force he couldn't resist. Slowly at first, then with growing speed, the delicate glow expanded and intensified, gently enveloping him, pulling him toward its radiant center.
As the luminous glow surrounded him completely, the darkness receded, and Bruce felt a sudden rush of sensation, cool air caressing his exposed skin. The abrupt return of physical awareness brought immediate confusion and discomfort. He opened his mouth to shout, to question, to protest—but no words emerged. Instead, to his astonishment, a baby's plaintive cry echoed sharply in his ears. It was the unmistakable sound of a newborn.
Distant laughter and voices filled with joy enveloped him, celebrating as if something wondrous had occurred. Confusion surged within him—whose baby was this? What was happening?
Then, above the excited murmurs, a sweet, gentle feminine voice spoke clearly, warmth and reverence in every word:
"Congratulations, my Lord and Lady, on the blessed arrival of your beautiful daughter! May she bring joy, health, and prosperity to your house. It is truly an honour to witness such a wonderful blessing upon your family."
Bruce's mind reeled violently at her words. Daughter? Beautiful daughter? A wave of bewilderment overwhelmed him, his thoughts spinning chaotically. What daughter? What nonsense is this?
Before he could process this impossible statement, he felt a sudden sensation of being lifted—large, strong, yet astonishingly gentle hands cradled him tenderly. The warmth and security of the embrace was strangely comforting, yet deeply confusing. A deep voice, rich with pride and tenderness, resonated warmly above him:
"Well done, Isabel! Words cannot capture the depth of joy in my heart. Finally, we have our precious baby girl—and what a beauty she is! Her brothers will surely adore her."
Bruce's bewilderment intensified further. Baby girl? Brothers? What is going on here? He summoned all his strength, compelling his heavy eyelids to open. Slowly, through blurred and unfamiliar vision, he glimpsed a scene that was entirely surreal yet vividly real.
Instantly, a group of maids—young and elderly alike—gathered around him, their eyes shimmering with awe and tenderness. Never before had Bruce known such pure, unconditional affection. One of the older women leaned in closer, smiling warmly, her eyes brimming with admiration:
"Oh, Madam Isabel, look at her! Those stunning deep-blue eyes, wavy golden hair, and those lovely, long lashes—she is your perfect mirror! Without doubt, she will grow into a beauty who will surely capture the heart of princes."
Confusion battled curiosity within Bruce, urging him to study his surroundings. His gaze swept across a magnificent chamber, lavish and opulent—medieval in style, yet grander than anything he'd ever imagined. Massive stone walls, illuminated by softly flickering candles, were covered in richly woven tapestries, depicting legendary knights, mythical beasts, and idyllic landscapes. The dancing candlelight painted the chamber with shifting shades of warm gold and honeyed amber.
At the heart of the chamber was a majestic four-poster bed of polished dark oak, intricately carved with delicate patterns of vines and heraldic symbols. Heavy velvet curtains in crimson and gold framed the bed, ready to provide warmth and intimacy. Luxurious silk sheets and furs covered the inviting expanse, promising comfort and repose. The delicate fragrance of roses and ivy wafted gently through an open balcony window, carried by the cool breeze of the evening.
A stone hearth nearby crackled soothingly, the comforting fire casting flickering shadows across the fine furniture and polished surfaces—an ornate writing desk, a beautifully gilded mirror, an imposing wardrobe. Each item radiated elegance, quiet majesty, and timeless grace.
Yet even amidst this luxurious splendor, Bruce's attention was irresistibly drawn back to the bed—and to her.
She lay gracefully beneath silken sheets, bathed in the gentle glow of firelight. Her golden hair cascaded over the pillows in lush, radiant waves, catching the candle's glow like spun gold. Her face, exquisitely delicate, appeared sculpted by divine hands—each feature perfectly shaped and touched by an ethereal beauty Bruce had never before imagined possible.
Her deep-blue eyes, calm as the still waters of a secluded lake, gazed toward him with immense warmth and maternal tenderness. They were tired yet radiant, filled with boundless love and gentle pride. Her full lips curved into a serene, dreamlike smile, suggesting contentment and inner peace. Her long, dark lashes fluttered softly, casting delicate shadows across the rosy flush of her fair cheeks.
She wore a flowing white nightdress, its fabric softly caressing her feminine form—curves gently rounded and softened by the miracle of childbirth, conveying the profound beauty of motherhood itself. The gown clung lightly, hinting gently at her generous, nurturing bosom, still full with the nourishment of new life. With each calm breath, her chest rose and fell gently, radiating an aura of divine femininity and sacred strength.
Bruce was utterly captivated, awestruck. He had never encountered anyone so intensely beautiful, so tenderly radiant—an embodiment of warmth and life itself. Every detail of her presence—the soft glow of her skin, the loving sparkle in her eyes, her serene expression of quiet joy—held him transfixed, stealing away the confusion and fear, even if only for a fleeting moment.
Yet deep beneath his admiration lay a persistent unease. Something was profoundly wrong, something he could not comprehend. But even this unease paled before her gentle magnificence, leaving him momentarily stunned, entranced by her ethereal grace.
In that surreal moment, as Bruce stared at the beautiful figure on the bed, he felt an inexplicable pull—a desire to know, to understand, to be closer to this remarkable being who gazed upon him with such unwavering love.
And though questions still burned fiercely within him, demanding answers, Bruce found his confusion momentarily tempered by an inexplicable, overwhelming peace. For just an instant, his turmoil subsided, replaced by a single, overwhelming sensation:
He was safe. He was loved. And for the first time in his troubled, painful life, he was not alone.
Entranced by the breathtaking beauty and maternal warmth radiating from Isabel, Bruce slowly turned his gaze upward to look at the man holding him. He was startled—almost overwhelmed—to realize just how enormous and powerful the man's hands were. They were large, strong, and calloused from years of swordsmanship or some noble pursuit, yet the man held him with astonishing tenderness, as if Bruce were made of delicate glass.
Muscular and broad-shouldered, the man exuded an air of natural authority, confidence, and strength. His posture was straight and regal, his bearing that of someone accustomed to command and respect. Yet, it was the expression upon his handsome, clean-shaven face that truly captured Bruce's attention—a look of absolute wonder, gentle pride, and pure, unconditional love. This towering figure, so imposing yet tender, gazed down upon Bruce with eyes as vivid and clear as polished sapphire.
A slow, radiant smile blossomed on the man's lips as he whispered softly, his voice resonating deep with heartfelt pride:
"In honor of Isabel's wish, our daughter's name shall be Lili. Such a pure and lovely name—perfect for our precious little girl."
Bruce's mind reeled, his confusion reaching new heights. Daughter? Lili? The reality of the man's words cut sharply through his already fragile grip on sanity. Panic surged inside him—he was no daughter! He was Bruce, a grown man, tough, rugged, an officer of the law. He wasn't some princess named Lili!
From the luxurious bed, Isabel's soft, melodic voice drifted gently, filled with warmth and certainty:
"Yes, Lili is perfect. I know in my heart she will become a bringer of love and hope to our people."
Her words, sweet and sincere, only deepened Bruce's internal conflict. Lili? Bringer of love and hope? This can't be happening—this has to be some twisted joke, a cruel trick!
Before Bruce's panicked thoughts could spiral further, the heavy wooden door burst open, swinging wide to admit two young boys. Their faces shone with excitement, their youthful voices bubbling with barely-contained energy and curiosity. Clearly brothers, they resembled the towering figure holding Bruce—sharing his strong jaw, blond hair, and striking blue eyes.
"Boys," the large man said affectionately, pride illuminating his face, "meet your new little sister, Lili."
The words struck Bruce like a physical blow. Sister? New little sister? A surge of denial and desperation crashed over him. Summoning all the strength in his tiny, helpless body, he opened his mouth to protest, to shout out that this was wrong—that he was no one's little sister, that he was Bruce, a man.
"What? No! I'm not your sister, not a girl! I'm a grown man!" he screamed internally, the words forming perfectly in his mind.
Yet only a pitiful, infantile cry escaped his lips, small and distressed, utterly ineffective. His frail newborn body shook uncontrollably, overwhelmed by frustration, confusion, and fear. Bruce's cry turned into heartbreaking sobs, an outpouring of anguish that his tiny lungs could barely manage.
The younger of the two boys stepped forward hesitantly, his innocent, wide-eyed face etched with genuine concern:
"What's wrong, father? Why is she crying? Did we do something wrong?"
The large man chuckled warmly, his deep voice soothing and reassuring as he gently handed Bruce—now Lili—to Isabel's waiting embrace.
"No, my son, you've done nothing wrong. Babies always cry when they're born. Believe me, your sister is still calmer than either of you were at this moment." His rich laughter filled the room, a comforting sound that seemed to soften the air itself.
Bruce, or rather Lili, felt Isabel's soft arms wrap around him tenderly, pulling him against the comforting warmth of her chest. Her gentle heartbeat was a soothing rhythm, her warmth enveloping him, a shield against the fear and confusion that threatened to consume him.
Isabel began humming softly, her voice sweet, melodic, filled with infinite patience and unconditional love. Each note of the lullaby drifted like a delicate breeze, wrapping around him, calming his frantic mind. Bruce felt himself begin to surrender to her voice, to her tenderness, despite his fierce internal struggle.
In his mind, he fought desperately against the feeling, stubbornly clinging to the remnants of his identity. Yet the comforting sensations were too strong, too overwhelming—something he'd never known in his previous life, an irresistible balm against a lifetime of isolation and pain.
Slowly, his tiny eyelids fluttered closed, too heavy to resist any longer. His small body relaxed instinctively into Isabel's embrace, surrendering to the irresistible call of comfort, warmth, and sleep. The exhaustion of birth overtook him, claiming him gently yet completely.
Yet even as his new body drifted toward rest, his consciousness continued a desperate, internal mantra, echoing stubbornly in his fading thoughts:
"This is just a dream. I'm a man, I'm a man, I'm a man..."
But gradually, even these defiant whispers faded into silence, replaced by the warm embrace, the sweet scent, and the gentle heartbeat of a mother who already cherished him without question or condition.
As sleep gently carried him away, for the first time in his existence, Bruce felt truly and completely safe, held in the embrace of genuine, unconditional love.