Crisis

Ethan gazed out the window. Through the dim glow of the streetlights, he saw four figures clad in black step out of a vehicle, their movements swift and disciplined. They did not charge in immediately; instead, they paused near the entrance, scanning their surroundings with methodical precision.

A sinking feeling settled in Ethan's chest—these were no ordinary thugs. Their coordination and composure revealed a level of training far beyond that of common street criminals.

"They haven't pinpointed your exact location yet. This is our chance," Ethan murmured, keeping his voice low. "If we slip out now, we might still make it—"

"No." The man beside him shook his head firmly. "They'll have someone stationed outside, keeping watch. Trying to escape now would only expose us faster."

Ethan gritted his teeth, his gaze sweeping the room, searching for a possible hiding spot. But before he could act, the heavy sound of footsteps echoed from outside the door.

"Someone's there," Ethan whispered.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A forceful knock shattered the silence, the pounding deliberate and demanding, as if testing whether the room was occupied.

Ethan cast a quick glance at the wounded man. "How did they know to come here?"

The man's expression darkened. "My blood."

Only then did Ethan notice the faint trail of crimson leading from where the man had stood, stretching all the way to the door. Under the dim streetlights, it might not have been obvious—but to professionals, it would be a dead giveaway.

Damn it. His pulse quickened.

The knocking abruptly ceased.

Then—

Boom!

The door burst open with a single, brutal kick.

Ethan's pupils contracted. He barely had time to react before four black-clad men stormed inside, their movements precise, devoid of hesitation.

One of them, a tall figure with piercing eyes, appeared to be the leader. His gaze settled on Ethan, and a faint, cold smirk played at his lips.

"Young man, don't do anything foolish." His voice was low, carrying a quiet menace.

Instinct urged Ethan to fight back, but the moment he took a step forward, something struck the back of his head—hard. A searing pain exploded through his skull. Staggering, he barely had a second to regain his balance before two of them seized him, wrenching his arms behind his back and binding them tightly.

"Tsk. Feisty little bastard." One of the men scoffed. "Thought we'd be dealing with someone important, but turns out he's just a student."

Ethan clenched his jaw, saying nothing. His eyes, however, remained locked on the wounded man.

The stranger did not resist. Two men restrained him with ease, securing his wrists behind his back—yet his face remained impassive, utterly devoid of fear or surprise, as though he had foreseen this outcome all along.

That eerie calm—something about it was deeply unsettling.

Who is this guy?

Was he really just an unfortunate victim caught in the crossfire?

Questions swirled in Ethan's mind, but there was no time for answers.

"Take them separately," the leader commanded. "Interrogate them."

Ethan and the injured man were hauled into different rooms. The black-clad men shoved Ethan into the living room, forcing him into a chair, his hands still bound.

"Talk," one of them said coldly. "What did that man tell you?"

Ethan forced a bewildered look onto his face. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm just a student—I don't know anything." He deliberately kept his tone innocent, though he knew full well they wouldn't buy it.

Just then—

A knock came from the front door.

"Ethan? You in there?"

It was the apartment manager.

A realization struck Ethan like a lightning bolt.

Every evening, he had a small habit—he would leave his trash outside the door, knowing the manager would collect it during his rounds. But tonight, he hadn't done so.

To him, it was an insignificant routine. But to the manager, it was an anomaly.

The black-clad men stiffened, exchanging wary glances. One of them muttered a curse. "Shit. Someone's here. Get rid of him. No funny business."

A brief silence followed. Then the manager's voice came again, cautious this time.

"Ethan, you okay? No trash tonight?"

Ethan's mind raced. He had to signal danger—without tipping off his captors.

Thinking fast, he replied, "It's fine… There's a lot of trash today. I'll take it out myself later."

"Take it out yourself?" The manager's confusion was clear.

"Yeah," Ethan continued, subtly emphasizing his words. "Could you tell the cleaning staff to save me a big trash bin?"

A seemingly harmless request—but an unmistakable alarm bell to anyone familiar with the building's routine. The cleaning staff had finished work hours ago, and all the bins were always large. There was no need to reserve one.

A brief pause.

Then the manager asked, "A lot of trash? Need help?"

"Twice the usual amount," Ethan responded, keeping his tone casual. "Just let the cleaning crew know."

A beat of silence.

Then, finally—

"All right. I'll take care of it."

Relief washed over Ethan.

The manager had understood.

But now, he had to stall for time. Long enough for the police to arrive.

The manager's footsteps faded down the hall. The intruders didn't seem to suspect anything yet, but the tension in the room thickened.

The leader's cold eyes bore into Ethan. "I'll ask you one last time—what did that man tell you?"

Ethan took a slow breath, willing himself to stay calm. If he slipped up now, they would know.

So instead, he feigned desperation. "I already told you—I don't know anything! I only found him injured and helped him. That's it!"

"Cut the crap." A fist slammed into his shoulder.

Pain shot through him, sharp and searing. Ethan gritted his teeth, feeling sweat bead on his forehead. But he refused to break. He let his breath hitch, feigned panic. "What do you want from me?! I'm just a student! Do you really think he'd tell me anything important?"

The men hesitated.

Sensing his chance, Ethan pressed on. "He barely even spoke! He was too weak to stand! If you want answers, why don't you ask him?"

His goal was clear—redirect their focus onto the other man, divide their attention.

The leader scrutinized him, weighing his words.

Then—

The distant wail of sirens cut through the night.

To Ethan, it was the sweetest sound in the world.

The black-clad men tensed. Their expressions shifted from skepticism to alarm.

Ethan lifted his head, meeting their gaze with a taunting smirk.

"Hear that?" he murmured. "What do you think that is?"

"Shit!" one of them hissed. "What the hell did this brat do?!"

Ethan shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing. Just… someone found it strange that I didn't take out the trash tonight."

"No choice—we're pulling out." The leader made the call, signaling his men. "Clean up. No traces left behind."

They moved swiftly, erasing any evidence of their presence, preparing to retreat.

But as the leader turned—

Ethan lunged.

With a sharp thrust, he threw his entire weight backward, tipping the chair with him. The wooden legs slammed into one of the men's knees.

"Argh—!" The man stumbled, his gun clattering to the floor.

Despite his restraints, Ethan twisted his body, using sheer momentum to send a vicious kick into another attacker's gut.

Crash!

The man tumbled into the coffee table.

Every second counted.

But before he could strike again—

A sharp prick pierced his neck.

Cold.

A numbing sensation spread through his veins.

His limbs felt heavy, sluggish.

Through his blurring vision, he heard the leader's voice—distant, fading.

"Move out."

Then—darkness.

—

When Ethan came to, his vision was still hazy. The distant murmur of voices reached his ears.

A police officer stood over him. The apartment manager hovered nearby, speaking anxiously.

"You're awake." The officer knelt beside him. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Ethan's fingers brushed against his pocket.

Something was there.

A black card.

No name. No insignia.

Just a single phone number.

Ethan's breath hitched.

This isn't over.