The room reeked of excess.
Silk sheets, gold-leaf trim, and the heavy scent of expensive perfume. On the massive king-sized bed, a hulking man with dark, sun-weathered skin stirred. The explosion from the stairwell had snapped him awake.
He scrambled to the edge of the mattress, reaching for a robe discarded on the floor. Beside him, two naked women—statuesque and stunning—began to rouse. One rubbed sleep from her eyes; the other sat up, confusion clouding her face.
Hunter didn't spare the women a glance. His eyes were locked on the target.
He raised the pistol.
"Wait—!" the man started, his voice a gravelly bark.
Hunter squeezed the trigger.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Three suppressed shots coughed into the room. Three 9mm rounds punched into the man's torso. He collapsed back onto the sheets, blood instantly blooming against the white silk.
The women finally processed the violence. They screamed, clutching each other, shrinking away from the dark figure in the doorway.
"Ah! Don't kill us! Please!"
Hunter ignored them. He had a code: no women, no children, no elderly. Unless they picked up a weapon, they were invisible to him.
He looked down at the gang lord—a key supplier for Stansfield's operation. The man was gasping, clutching his gut. Hunter had deliberately aimed for the stomach and shoulders. Painful. Messy. But not immediately fatal.
"Let's see if your luck holds out," Hunter whispered.
If his crew got him to the ER fast enough, he lived. If not, he died. Hunter didn't care either way. The goal wasn't assassination; it was noise. He needed the LAPD, the DEA, and the FBI swarming this building, chasing ghosts while Stansfield panicked.
Hunter turned and sprinted for the exit.
Voices boomed from the stairwell below. "Upstairs! Go, go!"
Hunter pulled another grenade from his Inventory. He sprinted toward the roof access, yanked the pin, and tossed the explosive blindly down to the sixth-floor landing.
He burst through the roof door just as the detonation shook the building. Screams of pain echoed from the stairwell.
He didn't look back.
Hunter grabbed the rappelling rope he had secured earlier, wrapped it around his waist in a hasty harness, and vaulted over the parapet. He descended in rapid, controlled bounds, kicking off the wall.
He reached the third floor when the shouting started from above.
"There! On the wall!"
Hunter looked up. A gangster leaned over the roof's edge, leveling a submachine gun.
Shit.
Hunter released his grip on the rope.
He free-fell through the air, dropping nearly thirty feet.
The ground rushed up to meet him. At the last second—ten feet from impact—he reached out, his fingers hooking onto a second-story window ledge. His enhanced tendons strained, absorbing the momentum, swinging him inward just enough to break the fall before he let go.
He landed in a crouch, rolling to dissipate the force.
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Bullets chewed up the pavement where he had been standing a second ago.
Hunter didn't hesitate. He zigzagged through the alley, the chaotic spray of automatic fire chasing his heels. He dove into the shadows of a side street, summoned his motorcycle from the void, and gunned the engine.
He vanished into the pre-dawn darkness, leaving a city waking up to war.
Two Hours Later. Chinatown.
Hunter, now clean-shaven and back in his civilian clothes, slipped into Tally's apartment.
"Finally over," he exhaled.
He locked the door, stripped off his clothes, and stepped into the shower. He scrubbed his skin raw, washing away the gunpowder residue, the sweat, and the metallic tang of blood.
Clean.
He pulled on fresh boxers and climbed into bed.
Tally was asleep, her breathing soft and rhythmic. She stirred as the mattress dipped under his weight.
"Mmm... stop it," she mumbled, swatting blindly at his hands as he pulled her close. "You kept me up all night... let me sleep..."
Hunter didn't answer. The adrenaline was still humming in his veins. He needed an outlet. He needed to feel something other than the cold recoil of a gun.
He kissed her neck, his touch demanding. Tally, sensing the intensity in his silence, stopped protesting. She sighed, half-annoyed, half-accepting, and melted into him.
Later.
Hunter sat on the edge of the bed, the smoke from his cigarette curling into the morning light. Tally had drifted back to sleep, her soft curves rising and falling under the sheet.
Hunter took a long drag, feeling the nicotine hit.
For a moment, he felt a crushing loneliness. He wanted to tell someone. He wanted to brag about how he, a simple painter, had played the FBI like a fiddle, framed a DEA kingpin, and turned the Los Angeles underworld upside down in a single night.
He looked at Tally. He had saved her from a living hell. She adored him. She would never betray him.
But he couldn't say a word.
The things he had done... kidnapping, grand larceny, multiple homicides, terrorism against federal agents. If the truth ever came out, they wouldn't just send him to prison. In the US, a cop-killer of his scale—especially an immigrant—would be fast-tracked to the electric chair or lethal injection.
The secret had to die with him.
To the world, he was just Hunter Sun: a handsome, slightly mysterious artist with a bit of money and a weakness for women.
"That's not a bad life," he mused, snuffing out the cigarette.
He felt the exhaustion finally creep in. He slid back under the covers, wrapping his arm around Tally's waist. She was trying to lose weight recently, but she was still delightfully plush.
Hunter closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Outside, Los Angeles was burning.
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