No Survivors

The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beep of the heart monitor. The fluorescent light above flickered slightly, casting a dull glow over the sterile walls. The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, a stark reminder that life and death often existed in the same space.

Sarah lay motionless on the bed, her face half-covered with bandages, an IV snaking from her arm, delivering what little comfort medicine could offer. The stark whiteness of the sheets only made her seem smaller, more fragile.

Jack stood at the doorway for a long moment before stepping inside, his boots heavy against the tile floor. He had seen her covered in blood, had held onto her as they loaded her onto the stretcher. He had never felt more helpless.

Now, she looked peaceful—but Jack knew better.

He pulled the chair closer to the bed, lowering himself onto it with a quiet sigh.

"You know," he murmured, his voice rough, "I never wanted to stay a detective."

Sarah didn't stir.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. "I was ready to walk away. After my first partner died, I didn't see the point anymore. I told myself it wasn't worth it. That the job eats people alive, and I didn't want to be the next name on a plaque."

His gaze flickered to the bandages covering Sarah's face, the bruises along her arms.

"But then you showed up." His voice softened. "You were this stubborn, sharp, pain-in-the-ass rookie who didn't take no for an answer. You wouldn't let me quit. Hell, you wouldn't even let me have a quiet day."

He exhaled a short breath, a hollow chuckle beneath it.

"I learned a lot from you, you know," he admitted. "You made me better. Less cynical. Less… angry."

Jack sat back, rubbing his hands together. "And now here you are. Barely hanging on."

His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening.

"I don't know what to do if you die, Sarah."

The words were raw, unfiltered. He hated how much truth was in them.

Jack had always been a man of control, of cold logic, of lines that shouldn't be crossed. But now?

Now, his hands itched for violence.

He stood, adjusting his coat. "I know you can't hear me. And maybe that's for the best."

Jack stepped closer, his voice dropping lower, sharper.

"I'm gonna find whoever did this."

He exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing.

"And when I do—"

His jaw tightened.

"I'm going to commit a murder."

He didn't wait for a response. He knew there wouldn't be one.

Instead, he turned and walked out—only to freeze in place.

Standing just outside the hospital door, waiting for him, was Internal Affairs.

Detective Reynolds," the agent greeted smoothly, straightening his tie. "Step aside. You're off the case."

Jack's blood ran cold.

________________________________________

Using the coordinates that Saline gave him, Nash tracked down the sniper.

The location was a rotting tenement building, one of the many forgotten structures on the city's outskirts. The kind of place where people went to disappear—or to be disappeared.

Nash scouted first.

He checked alleyways, rooftops, windows. No movement. No shadows.

Either the sniper was exceptionally good at hiding… or he wanted Nash to come inside.

Didn't matter.

Nash loaded his nine-millimeter, thumb pressing the magazine release, watching the old clip slide free. He caught it mid-air, tucked it into his jacket, and pulled a fresh magazine from his belt. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he slammed it into place, racking the slide back with a sharp metallic snap.

One in the chamber. Fifteen rounds.

He stepped through the entrance.

---

The first floor reeked of mildew and rot. Dim light filtered through shattered windows, casting jagged shadows across the crumbling walls.

Nash moved carefully.

Then—

A voice.

"Who the hell are you?"

A man stood near a wooden table, cigarette dangling from his lips. He was Coyote, one of their enforcers. Dressed in dark fatigues, a pistol holstered at his waist.

Three more men looked up from their conversation. Their postures shifted—casual to alert, coiled and ready.

One of them frowned. "He said—who the fuck is you?"

Still, Nash said nothing.

He kept walking.

The tension shifted. The men spread out, creating distance between each other.

That was a tactic. A fight was about to start.

Nash let them make the first move.

Then—

A hand went for a gun.

Nash fired first.

Four shots.

The first bullet slammed into the nearest man's skull.

One down.

The second dropped behind cover.

The third dove for his gun.

The fourth was already raising his weapon.

Nash moved.

A bullet whizzed past his head. Another ripped through his side.

Burning. Sharp.

He gritted his teeth. Pain—bad, but not deadly. He pressed his free hand to his side. Warm blood leaked between his fingers.

Not great.

The second man fired—Nash jerked left, twisting as the bullet shredded drywall behind him.

Move. Now.

Nash pivoted, dropping low as he fired two quick rounds.

One hit the shooter's throat.

He collapsed instantly, choking on his own blood.

The last two scrambled—one darted behind a pillar, the other fired blindly toward Nash.

Nash ignored the sting of his wound. Pain could wait.

---

The second-to-last man realized his mistake too late.

His pistol clicked empty just as Nash charged.

He barely had time to reach for a knife before Nash drove his elbow into his face.

Bone cracked. Blood splattered onto the floor.

The man staggered back, gasping.

Nash was on him before he could recover, grabbing his wrist and twisting.

A sickening pop.

The knife fell from his useless fingers.

Nash caught it.

He stepped in close, too close for the man to react—

Then drove the blade into his ribs.

A twist. A push.

The man let out a ragged, choking sound before his body slumped to the floor.

Now only one remained.

But he wasn't running.

The last man was watching.

Waiting.

Nash recognized it—he had seen it before in fighters who knew they were about to die.

A last stand.

No pleading. No escape attempt. Just a fight to the death.

The man grinned.

Then charged.

Nash braced as a hidden blade flashed in the dim light.

It sliced clean through his jacket, grazing his arm.

Pain licked through him. He ignored it.

Instead of dodging, he stepped in—closing the gap, using the man's own momentum against him.

The knife came up for another strike.

Nash caught his wrist mid-swing.

He twisted hard.

A crunch. A scream.

The knife clattered to the ground.

Nash didn't let go. He grabbed the back of the man's head, twisting viciously.

Snap.

The body went limp.

Silence.

Four bodies. No survivors.

---

Nash stood there, breath heavy, blood seeping from his wound.

No one left.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulder.

His ribs burned. The bullet wound wasn't deep, but it was bleeding.

He tore a strip from his shirt, wrapped it tight around his waist.

It wasn't much, but it would keep him going.

Nash grabbed his gun, reloaded, and made his way up the stairs.

The third floor was where the real fight was.

He climbed the final staircase, silent, controlled. His body tense with readiness.

He stepped through the broken doorway at the top—

And stopped.

Saline was there.

Standing near the far end of the room, her expression unreadable.

But she wasn't alone.

Beside her, Logan Ashford loomed.

The sniper. The one who had been watching him.

So this is where the trail led.

Nash's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked over Logan quickly—tactical pants, combat boots, no unnecessary gear. The man was built for efficiency, not excess.

And at his side?

A pistol.

Logan pulled it free in one smooth motion, aiming directly at Nash's chest.

Nash's instincts screamed at him to move—to find cover, to react—but he didn't.

Because Logan's finger wasn't on the trigger.

Not yet.

So Nash didn't move. Not yet.

A slow smirk curled at the edges of Logan's mouth.

Then—

Without warning, he shifted the gun.

And pointed it at Saline.

Before Nash could react—

A gunshot rang out.

The sound tore through the room, echoing against the cracked walls.

Saline staggered.

Blood bloomed across her side.

Nash didn't react. Not outwardly.

His mind calculated. The wound was bad—but survivable.

Logan hadn't killed her.

Which meant—he wanted Nash alive.

Logan laughed. A slow, taunting chuckle.

Nash didn't bite.

Then Logan turned his gaze back to Nash, raising the gun once more.

This time—

His finger moved to the trigger.