The air in Mike Richard's office crackled with a volatile silence. The scent of leather, power, and rage hung thick. The skyline outside had grown dimmer, stained orange with the bleeding sunset, but inside, time had frozen. The door creaked open with a calculated slowness. Collins stepped in like a man with nothing to lose.

Mike didn’t greet him.

He didn’t stand. He didn’t smile.

Instead, he reached into the drawer and pulled out the sleek black pistol.

Collins froze.

Click.

Mike cocked it, the sound sharp, crisp, and final.

Collins’ hands flew up instantly. “Hey, hey—what the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Behind Mike, Natalie’s gasp sliced through...