Earlier
"Let's go," Daisy said, stepping off toward the school. Ethan followed, but his mind was elsewhere.
How are the others doing? The thought stopped him cold. Wait, why do I care? I've never felt anything for them before. He caught his reflection in a shop window; his own stunned expression mirrored his confusion. Even more baffling was the fact that he'd called Allen to warn them about the attack. Why go to the trouble?
"Brother?" Daisy was saying something, her voice pulling him back to the present.
He looked at her, and the realization clicked. Madison was Daisy's only real friend. If something happened to her, Daisy would be devastated. That was it. He wasn't getting soft; he was just protecting his sister's happiness.
"Daisy, do you know the way to Madison's house?" Ethan asked abruptly.
She blinked, surprised by the non-sequitur. "It's near ours. Just two streets back. There's a small gym attached to the right of the building. Why? Is everything okay?"
"Can you make it to school from here on your own?" Ethan countered, ignoring the question.
Daisy nodded slowly, her brow furrowed with concern. Ethan hesitated. Should I leave her? What if they move on her while I'm gone? Before he could decide, Daisy waved to someone behind him. Ethan turned to see Sophia approaching.
"I can go with Sophia," Daisy suggested.
"You know her?"
"Yes, she's a friend," Daisy said, already jogging over to meet her.
Sophia? Ethan remembered her name from the hit list. She was a target too, wasn't she? He glanced around the busy sidewalk. It doesn't matter. This place is too crowded for an abduction. Without another word, Ethan turned and sprinted toward the apartment complex.
Present
"Sir? Are you certain that's him?" the subordinate whispered, standing beside the old man.
The old man nodded grimly.
"So, the rumors are true," the younger man breathed, his eyes wide. "The mercenary every organization fears... he actually exists."
In the center of the room, Ethan moved like a blur. He drove a fist toward a hitman's chest. The man scrambled to block with his rifle, but the force of the blow snapped the weapon in half like a dry twig. Ethan's fist continued forward, sinking into the man's sternum. A spray of blood erupted from the hitman's mouth as he collapsed.
The old man watched with calculated, unblinking eyes. Within seconds, the rest of the team lay on the floor, groaning in agony, unable to move their limbs.
Ethan didn't acknowledge the spectators. Clad in his mask, he calmly retrieved the bag he'd tossed aside upon entry. As he reached the exit, he passed the old man. Their eyes met for a fleeting second—a silent, mutual acknowledgment. The old man gave a slight, respectful nod. Ethan returned the gesture and vanished into the street, heading for school.
Elsewhere
A man sat on a leather sofa, staring out at the city traffic below. A bottle of apple juice and two glasses sat untouched on the table beside him.
Why are Teams A, C, and D silent? he wondered. Did something go wrong? No, impossible. The targets are just high school students.
Suddenly, his radio crackled to life, the sound distorted by static and pain.
"This is Team D... target Sophia is lost. Someone intervened. All men are down... God, my legs... they broke everything..." The man could hear his elite soldiers sobbing in the background, swearing they'd never take a contract like this again.
The man froze. Team D? Defeated? Team D was his vanguard—experienced killers capable of toppling government officials. He had initially thought Mr. Wyatt was a fool for wasting four special forces teams on a group of teenagers. Now, he realized Wyatt was the only one who had been thinking clearly.
"Sir?" the voice pleaded.
"I'll send a cleanup crew," the man snapped, regaining his composure. "What about the other teams?"
He waited, trying to convince himself the others had succeeded. A few minutes later, the radio chirped again.
"Sir... every team was decimated. It was a slaughter. They're all broken—Team D got it the worst, but no one is standing."
The man stood abruptly, swept the juice bottle and glasses off the table, and watched them shatter. He let out a long, jagged sigh. He had catastrophically underestimated these "kids."
Pulling out his phone, he pulled up a contact saved under a grim alias: Dead Man. He began to type.
Ethan reached the classroom door, slightly out of breath. He was late; the lecture had already begun.
"May I enter?" Ethan asked, his voice steady.
Mr. Henry looked up from his notes and gave a brief nod. Ethan slipped inside and took his seat.
"Morning, Ethan," Finn whispered leaning over.
"Morning, Finn," Ethan replied quietly.
Ethan's eyes immediately drifted to the empty desks where Madison and Allen usually sat. A cold feeling settled in his gut.
"Isn't it strange?" Finn whispered, noticing Ethan's gaze. "Allen and Madison never miss class. Even if they're sick, they always call it in ahead of time."
Ethan nodded slowly.