They turned the corner sharply—
Felix barely keeping pace, lungs burning, shoes slipping on cracked pavement.
Before them loomed a tall, worn-down building—windows shattered, walls weather-stained. A place long forgotten.
Matteo didn't hesitate.
He pushed through the rusted door. It creaked violently behind them, echoing like a warning.
Inside—dust, darkness, graffiti smeared across peeling walls.
Felix coughed, but Matteo didn't stop. He pulled him along the narrow hallway.
At the end—an elevator.
Matteo jabbed the button—
Nothing.
Felix caught the look in Matteo's eyes just before he turned—
"No time."
They burst into the stairwell.
Up they went—two steps at a time, boots thudding hard, Felix gripping the railing to steady himself as they climbed.
Felix's grip slipped on the railing. Matteo glanced back, jaw tight—then pushed forward faster, like speed alone could shield him.
Behind them—
Bangs.
Footsteps.
Shouts echoing up the shaft.
Matteo glanced back.
"They're coming."
Fifth floor. Sixth.
Felix's legs trembled, breath shallow—but he didn't stop.
They turned the final bend—
A rusted gate across the stairs.
Dead end.
Matteo stopped, eyes sweeping the area. No doors. No exits.
Below—the sounds were closer. Boots on metal. Voices.
Felix turned, chest heaving. "What do we do?"
Matteo said nothing.
His jaw clenched.
Eyes sharp, calculating.
A single drop of sweat slid down his temple.
And the only way left—was down.
The fight hadn't ended. It had only shifted.
The footsteps reached them—
Heavy. Unrelenting.
Rising up the stairwell like the rumble of a coming storm.
Then—
A shadow.
A boot.
A figure emerged.
Then another.
And another.
Five… six…
Seven. Eight.
They spilled onto the landing slow, controlled—
Like a silent wave curling before it crashed.
Matteo didn't step back.
He moved slightly forward—blocking Felix without touching him.
His frame steady. His shoulders squared like a man who'd faced worse.
Felix stayed behind, fingers twitching slightly, chest rising too fast, breath caught halfway between panic and disbelief.
His shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat, but his feet didn't move.
At the front—
A tall man with a lean build and a scar slicing down one cheek.
No mask. No fear.
His suit hung open, wrinkled from violence.
He stopped a few steps away, the others fanning out behind him.
"You done running?"
The man's voice was low—lazy—but laced with something vicious underneath.
That kind of calm only killers wore.
Matteo's eyes narrowed.
"Who the hell are you?"
His tone was quiet, razor-flat. No shake.
The man chuckled.
It was short. Dry.
Then, in fluent Italian, his words turned sharp:
"Tu pensi che uccidere Piedro sia bastato?"
(You think killing Piedro was enough?)
Then, in English—
"You started a fire. Now we burn everything you touch."
Matteo didn't blink.
But something shifted.
Felix saw it—just a flicker behind his eyes.
Recognition.
"Who sent you?" Matteo asked, low.
The man tilted his head, amusement playing at his mouth.
"Does it matter?"
He raised his hand slowly—almost like a conductor before the drop.
Then—snap.
A sharp click of fingers.
The first attacker lunged.
Matteo moved fast.
He met the man halfway, caught the wrist mid-swing—
Twisted.
A cry split the air.
He didn't stop—
He shoved the man sideways into the railing.
CLANG. Metal screamed.
Then it all broke loose.
Another man rushed him—Matteo ducked, clean and low—
One blow to the gut, another to the jaw.
Felix flinched as the man dropped.
He pressed against the wall, eyes wild, watching fists crack skulls and bodies crash into stair rails.
Two more charged—
Matteo grabbed a metal pipe from beside the landing.
One wide swing—THWACK.
It caught a man across the shoulder.
The other one dove—Matteo spun, the pipe now a weapon and shield—
He struck again.
Blood spattered the wall.
The air thickened with sweat, shouts, the wet thud of fists.
Felix couldn't look away.
Matteo moved like a storm—quick, brutal, never hesitating.
But they were outnumbered.
Still, they kept coming.
And Matteo—
Kept swinging.
Matteo fought like a man with nothing left to lose.
Every punch cracked through bone, every movement calculated—brutal, efficient. He pivoted, dodged, drove his elbow into one man's temple.
Another came at him with a broken chair leg—Matteo caught it mid-swing, yanked it free, and sent the man flying back into the wall.
Felix stayed near the wall, eyes darting, fingers trembling, his breathing ragged and shallow.
But then—
A sharp click.
The shift in the air hit Felix first.
He turned—and froze.
Just beyond the chaos, the man with the scar had stepped back. Calm. Collected. Arm raised, pistol aimed straight at Matteo.
Felix's breath stilled.
"No…" he whispered.
"Matteo!" he cried, voice sharp, panic-shaken.
Matteo didn't see it. He was still grappling another man, too focused, too deep in the fight.
Felix didn't think.
He moved.
One step, two—he reached for Matteo's arm.
Bang. The shot cracked through the stairwell, hot gunpowder stinging Matteo's nose.
Felix stumbled.
Matteo turned.
It wasn't his pain he felt—it was the sound. The thud. The sickening wet sound of something soft hitting stone.
Blood.
Felix's hand slipped from Matteo's arm, smearing red as he sank to the floor.
The bullet hadn't gone through—but it had grazed high on his temple, close—too close. Blood rushed down his face, soaking the collar of his shirt.
And in that second—
Time broke.
The shot cracked through the air like the sky itself had torn open.
"Felix…?" Matteo's voice cracked.
Then louder—"Felix!"
He shoved the last man off him, barreling forward, catching Felix just before his head hit the stairs.
His hands shook—pressing hard, as if he could force the bleeding to obey.
Felix blinked slowly, unfocused.
His lips moved, but no words came out.
Matteo looked up—rage twisting his face.
The man with the scar didn't flinch.
He lifted the gun again.
Matteo lunged forward—but a crashing noise shattered through the space. From the far side of the stairwell, glass broke. Reinforcements flooded in—Matteo's men, black-suited and armed.
The man with the scar didn't wait.
He bolted—smashed through the tall window behind him, disappearing into the night like smoke.
"After him!" Matteo shouted, his voice raw, wild.
They chased.
Get him!" Matteo barked, voice breaking. "Follow him—don't let him disappear!"
Footsteps pounded as his men obeyed.
But Matteo didn't move.
He knelt there, knees scraping the concrete, arms around Felix's limp body.
Blood soaked through his shirt, dripping down his wrist.
"Hey," Matteo whispered, breath shaking. "Stay with me. Look at me, Felix—look at me."
Felix's gaze fluttered. Then fixed—just barely—on Matteo.
A faint smile.
Weak.
Flickering.
"I ruined the shirt," Felix murmured, voice distant, cracked.
Matteo let out a broken laugh. It cracked in the middle, turning into a sob.
"Shut up," he choked. "You're fine. You'll be fine. Don't close your eyes, you hear me? Felix—"
But Felix's lids were growing heavy.
His breathing shallowed.
His hand twitched once in Matteo's grip.
But they weren't really seeing him anymore.
"Don't you dare," Matteo said, voice breaking, shaking him gently. "Don't you dare go quiet on me now."
Sirens in the distance.
Footsteps. Voices.
But all Matteo could hear was Felix's slowing breath. All he could see was the red. The red and those eyes—fluttering, fading.
"No…"
He cradled him tighter.
"No—no—stay with me… please… I can't lose you now."
And the blood.
And Felix's fading warmth against his chest.