Moraine moved closer to the door just as the elevator chimed on Jordan's floor, the sound carrying unnaturally far down the corridor. His shoulders tightened on instinct. He knew that pause—the breath the building seemed to take before violence arrived.
The first crash came seconds later. Wood splintered. A sharp shout was cut off mid-word.
Then another voice followed, louder, trained, carrying the weight of authority.
"Security. Don't move."
Another crash answered it.
"Stay where you are or I shoot."
Moraine closed his eyes for the briefest moment. Never the one to listen. Never the one to wait.
The hallway outside erupted into chaos—boots pounding in uneven rhythm, radios crackling over one another, doors slamming open and shut. Somewhere down the corridor a woman screamed, the sound shrill and panicked. The East Guards weren't creeping anymore. They had decided Middle Nolan no longer needed pretending.
Jordan's voice cut through it all, strained but sharp with defiance.
"This isn't your jurisdiction."
Moraine leaned in and peered through the peephole. The sight beyond made his jaw tighten.
Men were frozen mid-motion, weapons raised. One stood directly outside the concealed door Moraine was pressed against, his back turned, oblivious to how thin the wall between life and death really was. Jordan had a gun jammed against another man's temple, the helmet knocked clean off and rolling uselessly across the floor.
It wouldn't last. These men didn't operate on hesitation or fear. Jordan's leverage would buy him seconds at best—seconds before they decided how many lives were acceptable collateral.
Moraine saw Jordan inch closer to the window.
That was enough.
He slammed the door into the back of the guard blocking it and stepped through gunfire like it was muscle memory. The corridor exploded with sound—shots cracking, bodies dropping, shouts turning to choking gasps. Moraine counted automatically. Eight men. Six went down hard, armor absorbing impact but not momentum. Bulletproof vests. Helmets. They'd not be down for long.
"Took you long enough," Jordan snapped, smashing the butt of his gun into the man he'd been holding. The guard crumpled.
Another lunged for him. Moraine caught the bastard by the collar and hurled him through the window without ceremony. Glass shattered. The scream cut off too quickly.
"More are on their way up," Moraine said calmly. "Get in here."
Jordan didn't argue. He practically dove through the concealed doorway just as Moraine slammed it shut behind them, locking it back into the wall like it had never existed.
Silence fell—thin, temporary.
Moraine crossed to the window and glanced down at the street below. Being only two floors up in a corner flat exposed a blind side the East Guards hadn't sealed yet. Sirens were starting to rise in the distance. He felt a grim flicker of satisfaction. The sniper he'd taken out earlier would've had a perfect angle by now. Those bastards always did.
Behind him, Jordan hovered, breathing hard.
"So," Moraine said lightly, eyes still scanning the street, "how are you liking this attention from your newfound friend?"
Jordan hesitated before asking, quieter now, "Does that mean Askai finally escaped him?"
Moraine ejected empty magazines, reloaded with practiced ease, and glanced over his shoulder.
"Maybe. Maybe not. You should worry about yourself. Askai isn't someone who goes down easily."
Something ugly twisted in Jordan's chest. Askai was his brother. He would step in front of a bullet without thinking twice if it meant Askai lived. And every time Moraine spoke of Askai like a force of nature—and Jordan like an inconvenience—it scraped raw.
"Move," Jordan muttered. "I'll go down first."
Moraine grabbed him by the back of the neck and yanked him behind his own body without effort.
"Save the heroism for later."
Amusement flickered in his forest-green eyes. He'd caught it—the edge in Jordan's voice, sharp with something that felt suspiciously like jealousy. Years had passed, worlds had burned, but some instincts never died.
Moraine descended first, fluid and precise. Jordan followed seconds later, close enough to guard his back without consciously deciding to. They crossed the street under cover of noise and shadows, slipping into a narrow alley soaked in grime and fading daylight.
Moraine's gaze never stopped moving.
A car rolled up at the mouth of the alley.
"Here, boss!" Neil stepped out, tossing Moraine the keys. His eyes flicked to Jordan—quick, assessing, unmistakably irritated. "My men are creating a diversion at the front. I'll escort you with my boys to the docks."
"That won't be needed," Moraine said as he slid into the driver's seat. "I've got Jordan to deal with anyone who follows. Lead your men back. They'll need you."
Neil stiffened. It was subtle, but Jordan saw it—the tightening jaw, the swallowed protest. He nodded once and stepped back, eyes lingering on Moraine just a second too long.
Jordan smirked faintly at Neil. First meeting and they were already getting under each other's skin.
But when did Moraine start letting people in like this?
The car shot forward, swallowing the alley and Neil with it, merging into the evening traffic of Middle Nolan. The sound of gunfire faded behind them, leaving an uneasy quiet.
Jordan glanced sideways.
Moraine's profile was sharp in the dim light. Grey threaded his temples now—too early. His eyes stayed on the road, flicking to the mirrors, scanning constantly. It struck Jordan then how familiar this felt. Running. Escaping. Trusting Moraine to keep them alive.
It should've terrified him.
Instead, it steadied him.
"Stop staring a hole through my head," Moraine said without looking.
Heat rushed to Jordan's face. He snapped his gaze away, focusing hard on the blur of passing lights.
"You're delusional. I was scanning for threats."
Moraine glanced at him, unimpressed.
"Sure. How many men are following us?"
Jordan froze. Then cursed quietly and pulled out his gun, checking mirrors, twisting to look back.
"Shit. Two cars. Based on last time—possibly six shooters, two drivers."
A corner of Moraine's mouth lifted.
"Relax. Bulletproof car. Don't fire unless they do."
"What if they're waiting for backup?"
"I've already called Neil."
Jordan bristled. "I can take six shooters before they even think about calling—"
"You are doing nothing," Moraine cut in. "Listen for once."
He swerved, blocking an overtaking car. The response was immediate - gunfire hammering into the frame.
Jordan's pulse spiked. "What now?"
Moraine floored it, shooting him a look that said shut up. Jordan went rigid, coiled tight. The traffic thinned and lanes were opening dangerously wide.
"You have three minutes," Moraine said, voice calm but iron-hard, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The flyover rose in the distance like a narrow throat they had to slip through. "You deal with them before we cross. You're back in your seat the moment we exit."
"Gotcha," Jordan replied, a grin tugging at his mouth despite the adrenaline spiking through his veins.
He flipped the safety off with practiced ease, cocked the hammer, and leaned just enough to line up the shot. The first shooter barely had time to raise his weapon before Jordan's bullet snapped his head back, blood misting the air as the man collapsed against the car door behind him.
Gunfire erupted instantly.
The next three minutes blurred into noise and motion—tires screaming, bullets tearing through metal, the sharp recoil biting into Jordan's arm again and again. Moraine drove like the road belonged to him, weaving, accelerating, braking just enough to throw off aim. By the time they were halfway up the flyover, three of the four shooters lay slumped and unmoving in the pursuing vehicle.
Jordan sucked in a breath, eyes scanning fast.
"One more," he said, voice tight. "He's still up. Reloading. I've got him in sight."
"Cool your horses," Moraine snapped. "We're almost clear. Roll the window up. Neil will finish it."
"I'm fine with that—"
The sentence died as a sharp crack shattered the side mirror. Glass exploded inward. Jordan swore, ducking instinctively before yanking the hammer back again.
"That bastard's dead," he growled.
He leaned out, heart pounding, finger tightening on the trigger just as they merged into another lane that spilled toward a wide intersection—
"Get inside!" Moraine roared.
From the right, a military vehicle surged into view, heavy, armored, unmistakable. Its mounted gun swung with chilling precision, barrel aligning straight with Jordan's chest.
The shot went off.