The fridge hummed in a low, broken tone.
Jace opened his eyes to the same ceiling cracks he saw every day. Mold creeping in the corner. The same tile under his back. No pillow. No blanket. Just a cigarette burn on the wall and the soft tick of a fan that never turned.
He sat up slowly.
The ants were back, trailing along the wall like they owned the place.
In the corner, Rook rocked.
Eyes closed. Arms folded. Calm. Like he belonged in that chair more than the floor did.
Jace's phone buzzed once.
Unknown Caller.1:42 PM.
He answered. Didn't say anything.
BROKER (flat):"There's an opportunity."
Jace rubbed his eyes. "Local?"
BROKER:"West end. Industrial block. Forty minutes. You're not alone on this one."
Jace stood. Walked to the sink. Turned the tap. Nothing but a slow drip.
JACE:"What's the job?"
BROKER:"Mafia family. Retired boss. Birthday party. Everyone's there."
JACE:"The boss?"
BROKER:"The boss. The wife. The kids. Two sons, one daughter. You already know the rest."
Jace stayed quiet.
BROKER:"This isn't work. It's cleanup. Payment's triple."
A longer pause this time.
BROKER:"You coming or not?"
Click.
Jace slipped the phone into his coat. Loaded a mag into the pistol on the counter. Two more in the pocket. He didn't check them. He already knew they were full.
Behind him, Rook was still rocking.
ROOK (without opening his eyes):"Triple pay to wipe a whole bloodline? You sure know how to pick 'em."
No response.
ROOK:"You're not going for the money."
Still nothing.
ROOK (opening his eyes):"You're not going to kill them. And you're not going to save them. So what are you doing, Jace?"
Jace tied his boots.
ROOK (quieter):"You're not walking to a hit. You're walking into a coin flip."
Overlook Ridge — 2:26 PM
It was always the same house.
Too normal. Grey siding. Plastic lawn furniture. A grill still steaming. Kids in dress shirts. Red cups. Balloons tied to a mailbox.
Jace crouched behind a fence, hidden under overgrown weeds. Binoculars hung from his fingers. He hadn't raised them once.
Down below, the van sat crooked in the driveway. Four men inside. You could feel the energy from here—reckless, untrained, hungry for blood.
ROOK (off to his right):"Almost showtime. You sure you want front-row?"
Jace didn't answer.
ROOK:"You're really gonna stand here while it happens? Watch it all and feel nothing?"
The van doors opened.
Men spilled out. Fast. Loud. One of them fired a warning shot.
Screaming.
The mother rushed toward her youngest. One boy fell on the sidewalk. The father reached for a bat—he didn't get far.
Jace didn't move.
ROOK (amused):"There it is. That itch in your spine. That little twitch in your trigger finger. But you're not reaching for the gun, are you?"
A girl broke away from the chaos—small, maybe ten—bolting toward the trees behind the house.
One of the gunmen noticed. Turned. Started after her.
Jace stood.
ROOK:"You're not going to stop them."
He walked.
ROOK (following):"You're not fast enough. You're not clean enough. This isn't your job, remember?"
Jace climbed the fence. Dropped hard. His ribs still ached from last night. Mud soaked his pants as he cut through overgrown yards. One step. Another. Slower. He wasn't rushing.
ROOK:"You're not trying to save anyone. You're trying to lose."
Gunshots echoed behind the houses. He ducked through hedges. Hopped a fence. Slipped on gravel. Caught himself. Kept going.
The backyard came into view. Two bodies already down. The father. One of the sons. Blood across the porch.
The girl was crawling through a gap in the hedge, legs shaking. One of the gunmen saw her. Raised his weapon.
Jace drew his pistol and fired.
The shot tore through the man's throat. He dropped.
The others turned.
Jace didn't speak. Didn't hesitate. Walked forward and kept firing.
One bullet. Two. Another one dropped. A shot clipped his arm. Another struck his ribs. He grunted—but didn't fall.
He reached the girl. Threw his body over hers.
More bullets.
One hit his back. Then another.
He didn't flinch. Just exhaled, slow.
And then he collapsed—arms around her, blood soaking through his coat.
Silence.
One of the shooters ran. The others were already gone or dead.
The girl was sobbing beneath him, but alive.
Across the lawn, Rook stood alone. The rocking chair sat behind him in the grass, tilted just slightly.
He sat in it.
Rocked once.
ROOK (soft):"Took you long enough."