The First Move

Chapter 9

Orion City - 2:13 AM

The city was asleep, but Damien Xander was wide awake.

Inside his safehouse, the glow of surveillance monitors painted the room in hues of blue and green, flickering across his face as he studied the feeds. His sharp gaze swept over the traffic cams, the drone footage, and the thermal scans of the surrounding buildings.

Somewhere out there, in the endless maze of Orion's underworld, the Widowmaker was waiting.

Or maybe, he was already here.

Reed Donovan sat at the workstation, scrolling through intercepted data spikes from Victor's estate. His fingers moved fast, but his expression was tight. Focused. "Victor's gone radio silent. No outgoing calls, no meetings. That means one of two things."

Damien didn't look away from the screens. "He's hiding."

"Or," Reed muttered, grim, "he's already made his next move."

Damien leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "No. If Victor was calling the shots, we'd see some brute force by now. More mercs, more desperation."

His obsidian eyes narrowed slightly.

"But this isn't Victor's play anymore."

Reed hesitated. "You think—"

A sudden power fluctuation in the safehouse made the monitors flicker. Just for a second. Barely noticeable.

But Damien noticed.

He froze, listening. The hum of the building's power grid had changed—a fraction of a second too slow.

A chill ran down Reed's spine as he looked up. "No way. You think he's—"

Damien moved.

In one swift motion, he grabbed his pistol, twisted out of his chair, and killed the lights.

The room went pitch black.

Then—silence.

Reed's breathing slowed. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. "Boss…"

Damien raised a hand. Wait.

His heartbeat was steady. His mind sharpened. He listened—really listened—to the patterns of the building.

Footsteps.

Two floors down.

Deliberate. Precise. No wasted movement.

Damien's lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.

So, the Widowmaker had finally arrived.

The Dance Begins

Outside the safehouse, the streets were silent, but Damien knew better than to trust the quiet.

This was a test. A psychological game.

The Widowmaker wasn't coming in with a full frontal assault—he was toying with him.

A normal man would be unnerved. But Damien wasn't normal. He had been trained in war, baptized in blood, and forged into something far worse than just a soldier.

He wasn't the prey.

He was the apex predator.

Damien tapped into his earpiece. "Reed. Secure all data lines. Purge anything non-essential. I want us dark in sixty seconds."

Reed swallowed but nodded. "Understood." His fingers danced across the keyboard. "Also… not to sound paranoid, but there's a faint EM disruption surrounding the block. Could be a fluke, but…"

"It's not," Damien muttered.

This was widowmaker territory. A killbox.

Damien moved to the weapon rack, strapping a combat knife to his belt and holstering a silenced Glock. He didn't grab an assault rifle. That would be too loud, too crude.

This wasn't war. This was a hunt.

Then—the first shot rang out.

A high-velocity round tore through the window, missing Damien's head by an inch. The bullet embedded itself into the concrete wall, sending fine dust into the air.

Reed ducked behind the desk. "Son of a—"

Damien's reaction was instant. He rolled low, moving away from his previous position. The second shot came faster, precise—straight through where his skull had been.

The Widowmaker wasn't just testing him.

He was measuring him.

The Art of the Kill

Damien exhaled slowly. He pressed his back against the wall, calculating.

The shots had come from a rooftop. Roughly 400 meters out, high angle. That meant two things:

1. The Widowmaker had already mapped the city's vantage points.

2. He wanted Damien to know he was watching.

This wasn't just about the kill.

It was about breaking the mind before the body.

Damien smirked.

Amateur mistake.

He tapped his earpiece. "Reed, I need an exact location. Thermal scan, rooftop heat signatures—find him."

Reed was already on it. "Hold up. Calculating trajectory." His fingers flew across the keys. "There. Hotel Argentum, 42nd floor."

Damien moved.

He didn't run. Didn't panic. Instead, he took a non-direct route, weaving through the back alleys, using shadows and reflections to mask his movement.

If the Widowmaker wanted to play mind games—Damien was about to rewrite the rules.

Hunter vs. Hunter

Hotel Argentum - 42nd Floor

The Widowmaker lay prone, his custom sniper rifle steady, his scope scanning the street below.

His lips curved slightly. Damien was fast. Smart. Most men would have scrambled for cover—but not him.

He had vanished.

Interesting.

Elias Creed had killed presidents, warlords, and ghosts. But Damien Xander? He intrigued him.

Then—his earpiece crackled.

A voice. Low. Smooth. Mocking.

"Looking for me?"

Elias's blood ran cold.

Before he could react—

CRACK.

A bullet pierced the rifle scope, shattering the lens, barely missing his eye.

Elias rolled instinctively, abandoning his position. The shot had come from above—not from below.

Damien had flanked him.

Checkmate.

For the first time in years, the Widowmaker felt something close to excitement.

Maybe this would be fun after all.

--