Bullseye

Meanwhile, in a dark and dusty shed beneath the Empire State Building's underground parking, four people sit in a locked cell. One adult and three teens, all taken as hostages by the terrorists.

Mike, a Black adult man, seems oddly calm in this place. He's more relaxed now than he was when he first realized they were being held hostage.

"Huh, this doesn't feel that bad. I thought it would be worse," he says.

"At least we're just locked in a room with dust, some rats, and total darkness. Still better than being tortured," says Selena, a girl sitting beside him.

"Yeah, I wish they had a bed for me... I mean for us. That would make it feel exactly like a prison."

"You want to be in a prison that much?"

"No, I mean... an actual prison would still be better, right?"

"..."

As the two of them joke to pass the time and make the place feel less awful, Jenny, another girl sitting close to Selena, stays quiet. She doesn't respond. Her thoughts are somewhere else.

She still hasn't gotten over the shock and pain of watching her best friend die in front of her.

Selena notices. She wants to say something to help, to bring comfort, but she knows no words can fix this. Nothing she says will bring their friend back. Nothing will change where they are. But still, she can't just watch Jenny fall deeper into silence.

"Jenny, you should take a rest. It's been a long day for you."

Selena speaks softly, leaning in and gently placing a hand on Jenny's shoulder.

"Yeah, you should..."

Out of nowhere, Roy, the boy who has been here much longer than the others, finally speaks. His voice is tired, drained, almost emotionless.

"I haven't slept a full night in days. So if you're all done talking, can you please be quiet? I'll die if I don't sleep."

"Oh... okay…"

"Thank you."

After saying his piece, Roy lies down on the floor. He doesn't care about the dust or how dirty it is. He just wants to sleep.

"Yeah, I'm feeling tired too," Mike says. After staying up all night to keep watch over the girls, he's worn out. He grabs some old cardboard boxes, stacks them under his head, and lies down.

"These boxes are terrible pillows."

Despite the complaint, he still uses them. The box is stiff, oddly shaped, and uncomfortable, but it's better than nothing.

"Good night, or good morning," he says to Selena, then closes his eyes and drifts off into sleep.

"You should rest too, Jenny," Selena says quietly. "You stayed up all night."

Jenny, still shaken by what happened the day before, hasn't had a second of sleep. Like Roy, she's exhausted, but fear keeps her tense.

"Don't worry, I'll keep watch. I already slept back at the bar, so I'm fine."

"...K."

That's all Jenny says. Just one letter. A short "K" instead of "OK." It sounds cold, but to Selena, it's the first gentle word she's heard from her friend since yesterday.

Jenny slowly lies down, hugging her legs as she curls up on the floor. Her eyes close. From behind, Selena can see the faint calm on her face.

Seeing that gives Selena a small sense of peace too. The dim light, the still air, and the weight of exhaustion pull all three of them into sleep. Now, Selena is the only one still awake.

"…"

After confirming that everyone is asleep, Selena checks her smartwatch. She glances around, front and back, then quietly begins her secret plan.

...

...

...

"Shit. I think I messed up."

As bright sunlight hits his face, Nick wakes up. He groans and squints, the light burning into his eyes. Hours ago, Brent hit him in the head with a rock and knocked him out cold. Now, he's finally regaining consciousness.

The first thing he feels is the burning discomfort of lying under the sun for too long. Then comes the fogginess from sleep, followed by a spike of fear. He has no idea what might have happened while he was unconscious.

Then he pauses.

"Wait, why am I still here?"

He looks around. Brent is gone. But he's still here, lying in the same spot. If Brent really betrayed them and joined the terrorists, shouldn't Nick be captured or dead by now?

Somehow, by sheer luck or arrogance, Brent didn't follow through. Maybe he felt like he had already won and forgot about the one person he should have finished off.

Nick takes a deep breath. He's alive. And more than that, Brent forgot something else— the AR-15 rifle. Still armed.

He gets up, brushes the dirt off, and scans the area. Everything is quiet. Too quiet. No signs of gunfire. No signs of escape. The giant force field barrier still hangs in the sky.

The mission has failed.

Neil and the others must be trapped or captured. Now, Nick is the only one left out here.

Right now, as long as he stays unnoticed, Nick needs to find a better hiding spot and figure out how to get Neil and maybe the others out.

But who exactly?

He knows Neil is not a traitor. At first, he also trusted Brent, thinking he was just a rebellious teenager trying to grow up. But after what happened, Nick has learned not to underestimate how dangerous teenagers can be when they decide to betray you.

Now he's stuck. If he does manage to get inside, who else should he help? He has no intel, no way to contact anyone. Before doing anything risky, he needs a plan. He needs to decide who is worth the risk.

Who?

...

"Да ты что?" (What the hell?)

At the same time, on one of the middle floors of the Empire State Building, a man steps out into the hallway. He takes a deep breath, enjoying the fresh morning air and sunlight after a night in one of the most comfortable beds in the world.

Feeling smug, he walks to the window, looking down on the city. From here, he can admire the view and pity those stuck below who don't enjoy his high position.

But something strange catches his attention. Movement.

He squints and focuses. On the rooftop of a nearby building, an adult man is doing something unusual. He's moving cautiously, not like a terrorist on patrol. He's wearing a normal suit, not tactical gear.

And in his hands is a black rifle.

And as soon as he sees this, he knows immediately. The man down there is a snitch. What matters now is how he reacts. He could alert the others and have someone go take care of it, but instead, he chooses something quieter.

He walks back to his room, opens a drawer, and picks up his sniper rifle.

"Where the fuck are they anyway?"

Back on the rooftop, Nick continues to wander. He's deep in thought, focused on what to do next, unaware that danger is watching him from above. The sniper opens a window, sets the rifle on the ledge, and slowly moves into position.

"Come here."

All he needs now is the right moment. The target just has to stand still. With the distance and wind conditions, the sniper wants everything perfectly aligned to make a clean, silent kill.

"..."

Suddenly, a chill runs down Nick's spine. He's not sure why, but something feels wrong. He's standing in the open, exposed. No cover. No movement. He remembers where he is.

He's not invisible. Years of combat experience kick in. His instincts scream at him.

Move.

Nick dives and rolls behind a large rooftop air conditioner the size of a small car, just as a bullet tears through the air. It slams into the metal unit where he was standing seconds ago.

"Shit!!"

He gasps. That was close. The shot was nearly silent. No loud bang. Just a soft pop. A suppressed sniper rifle. Whoever fired it came prepared.

Nick steadies his breath. The shock fades quickly, replaced by a familiar sensation. Readiness.

Fear mixes with adrenaline. He hasn't felt this kind of danger in a long time. His body moves on instinct. And somehow, in this life-or-death moment, he feels a strange rush of excitement.

This takes him back. Back to Afghanistan. Back to the times he played deadly games of hide-and-seek with enemy snipers. Trying to locate their positions while they waited for a clean shot at his head.

Was it terrifying? Yes.

Was it dangerous? Absolutely.

But was it fun? Without a doubt.

This is one of the great mysteries of male psychology. The strange enjoyment of risking everything, especially in war. That rush when death is just inches away.

Back on the rooftop, Nick checks his rifle. He pulls out the magazine, counts the rounds, inspects the chamber. Everything is clean. Everything works. He has more than enough bullets to deal with the sniper somewhere in the Empire State Building.

Meanwhile, Kosho, the sniper, grips his weapon tightly. He doesn't let it shift even a centimeter. He waits patiently. He knows that all he needs is one small mistake. One inch of the target's forehead peeking out, and it'll be over.

"..."

Time passes.

No movement.

Nothing comes out from behind that massive rooftop air conditioner. Kosho starts to wonder if the man is still even there. Maybe he moved. Maybe he escaped. That big, annoying metal unit blocks everything.

"..."

Then it happens.

Through the scope, he sees it. Just a bit of skin. The target peeks out from the left, head tilted slightly. Kosho doesn't hesitate. He shifts his aim quickly and fires.

Swoosh!

He misses. The target ducks just half a second before the shot reaches him. Even though it was a suppressed bullet, somehow the man sensed it.

Frustrated, Kosho exhales sharply and adjusts. He zooms out, widening the view in his scope to cover the entire rooftop. Instead of focusing on a single point, he scans the whole area now.

He expected this to be quick, a simple job to kick off the morning with one clean shot. Now more than ten minutes have passed, and the target is still alive. And he's barely a mile away.

Something like this used to be a piece of cake for him. Kosho had taken down targets in far worse conditions. But this one, is pissing him off.

What annoyed him the most was the moment right before he fired. He saw it through the scope. The target's eyes were staring straight back at him. Calm. Cold. As if he was just some insect. That look made his blood boil. He felt underestimated by what he thought was just an amateur.

"..."

Wait. Something feels off.

Kosho's thoughts suddenly catch up with him. If the target was looking directly at him, then how? Kosho is hidden behind a window several floors up. There's no way he should have been visible.

Unless... the target already knew where he was. And Kosho had stayed in the same position the entire time.

That realization hits hard. One of the most basic sniper rules: never stay in the same spot after you fired. And he just broke it.

"Блядь!" (Shit!)

Kosho snaps back to the scope, suddenly tense. He scans the rooftop: right, left, up, down. He zooms in on the large air conditioner unit where the target had last been hiding.

Too late. Nick is already in position, lying in the shadows. Perfectly still. Perfectly aimed.

The last thing Kosho sees through the scope is a white muzzle flash before a bullet tears through his window's glass.

"Bingo."

Nick whispers the word to himself after confirming the shot. He doesn't wait. He rolls back, grabs his gear, and hurries downstairs before the other terrorists figure out where he is from the gun shot bang.

Since Nick wasn't a professional sniper, and because his weapon was just an assault rifle, the shot didn't kill Kosho. But it shattered the glass with a loud crack, and a sharp shard sliced across his cheek, leaving a long, burning scar.

A few seconds later, the walkie-talkie beside him crackled to life.

"I heard the glass break. Does anyone know what happened?"

The others had heard it too. Kosho knew he had to respond quickly. He was still stunned, mentally frozen from what just happened. Until now, he had believed he was one of the best snipers in the world. He was sure no one could outmatch him one-on-one. Not with a better rifle, not with a better scope.

Yet here he was. Hit.

Not fatally, but enough to leave a scar. Enough to bruise his pride. This was the first time he had been touched in five years.

And not just by anyone, but by someone without a scope. Someone using a basic assault rifle. Kosho had thought that gave him the advantage.

Today, that arrogance cost him. What Nick had wasn't elite equipment or sniper school training. What Nick had was real combat experience.

Kosho honed his skills through clean, controlled shooting ranges and contests. Nick, on the other hand, learned by surviving. His training came from warzones, from the constant threat of death, from battlefields soaked in chaos. Nick's instincts were forged through pain and pressure.

In a country like the United States, where war seems constant, Nick had all the chances to evolve into a soldier who survives no matter what. Maybe the Soviet Union had been too peaceful.

Kosho, still bleeding, reached for the walkie-talkie with a shaking hand. He knew he had to respond.

"In... Intruder. We have an intruder from outside. He's coming in."