CHAPTER 8: GUNFIRE AND GHOST.

At the VIP section of the hotel, two of the mysterious men in black suits who had checked in earlier stood guard outside a room. Inside, the man with the briefcase cuffed to his wrist lounged comfortably on a plush sofa. Smoke curled lazily from his cigar, a glass of dark liquor resting in his hand. Bodyguards lined the walls, tense and alert.

Then came the thunderous bang—gunshots ripped through the door. One of his bodyguards slammed backward, bullet-riddled, crashing onto the marble floor.

The man’s drink shattered as he dove behind a fortified corner of the suite. Chaos exploded. The unknown squad, clad in black ballistic gear, clashed with his bodyguards in a brutal, close-quarters firefight, riddling the luxurious suite with bullets. Shattered glass, crushed furniture, and acrid smoke filled the air, turning the room into a war zone.

---

Elsewhere in the hotel, in the woman’s room—the one Hermit had seen whispering with the briefcase man earlier—she lay stretched across the bed in a white singlet and thong, scrolling through her tablet, earbuds in. The screen's blue glow reflected coldly in her sharp, unblinking eyes.

Then—muffled gunfire.

She paused.

Pulled the earbuds free.

Sat up, catlike and still.

Bang! Bang!

No imagination. That was real.

Without hesitation, she reached into the nightstand and pulled a sleek matte-black handgun fitted with a silencer—a veteran's weapon, the grip worn smooth from years of use. She chambered a round with a swift, practiced flick, then padded silently to the door.

Cracking it open, she peeked into the hallway—just in time to see a bodyguard sprint past.

Thwip!

A bullet punched through his skull, blood misting the air as he collapsed in a boneless heap.

No time to gasp. No time to blink.

She didn’t flinch.

Footsteps pounded toward her door.

She pivoted, back tight to the wall, gun raised in both hands.

Boom!

The door exploded inward, wood splintering.

The first agent through caught two to the chest before his knees even buckled.

Another leapt over the body—firing wild.

She dove low, rolled behind a chair, and returned fire—taking out his leg with a crack of bone. As he screamed, she was already moving, flipping the chair into a third attacker's path and launching herself off it—knee-first into his face. His nose shattered with a sickening crunch.

Another agent charged through the chaos, rifle raised.

She twisted the second attacker's limp body up as a shield—bullets ripped into his vest.

Dropping him, she kicked the rifle out of the shooter's hands, then drove her palm upward into his chin—bone and blood spraying.

She didn’t wait for him to fall.

Pop-pop.

Two quick shots. He dropped.

Silence returned—thick, smoky, metallic.

She slammed the door wide open.

“We’re out of time,” she snapped, breathing hard. Gun sweeping the room, eyes cold and calculating. Without a moment to waste, she sprinted into the adjoining suite—where the man was still shackled to the suitcase.

---

In her own room, Candice typed steadily on her laptop, bathed in the screen’s faint glow.

Suddenly, she paused. A cold prickle raced up her spine—the same instinct that had saved her life once before. Her fingers hovered above the keys.

She exhaled slowly. Shook it off.

Typed again.

Paused again.

Her gaze drifted—first to the wardrobe. Then to the mirror.

Her reflection stared back: normal.

She turned slightly, eyeing the bathroom door—ajar.

Nothing moved.

But her senses screamed: danger.

Her eyes darted to the vase. The hotel’s surveillance camera—hidden inside it—winked back silently.

Then—movement.

Her heart stopped.

She swung her gaze to the wardrobe—and froze.

Dead Amy.

Gaunt, skin pale and stretched tight over bone, black nails like claws, long gray hair veiling her face. A soft, crackling noise—like twigs snapping—came from her broken joints.

A ragged breath rasped through the room.

Amy stepped forward.

Candice’s body jolted into action. She scrambled off the bed, crashing onto the floor. Trembling, she clutched her shirt, eyes screwed shut.

“It’s not real. It’s not real,” she whispered. “It’s just in my head—it’s not real—I won’t fall for it—I won’t—”

CRASH!

The door flew inward with a violent kick.

Candice screamed louder, curling in terror.

“Candice!” a familiar voice shouted.

Jeff.

She peeked between her fingers. “Jeff…?”

He scanned the room, eyes sharp, one hand tucked behind his back.

“Sorry for barging in,” he said, voice steady but urgent. “I came to check on you.”

Candice, still shaking, struggled to sit up. “W-Why did you... barge in like that?”

Jeff’s eyes softened, but his tone stayed focused. “You need to stay calm. There’s a situation—gunmen. The hotel’s under attack.”

The Indian boy sprinted down the hallway and poked his head into the room. "Guys! Something's happening—pew pew pewnn! Gunshots everywhere!"

He skidded to a halt, staring at Candice on the floor. “And... why is Miss Cold Heart on the ground again?”

“Yes, we heard it too,” Jeff said. “Go back to your room. Lock the door.”

Candice’s gaze dropped to Jeff’s hand—the one hidden behind him.

“Jeff…” she said carefully. “What are you hiding?”

Jeff hesitated, then revealed it—a sleek, standard-issue L131A1 general service pistol.

The Indian boy’s eyes lit up. “Holy shit—it’s a gun! Like, 007 level! Can I touch it?!”

Candice leaned away from Jeff, suspicion creeping back into her mind. “You’re carrying a gun? What the hell, Jeff... are you one of them?”

Jeff shook his head slowly, voice steady. “I’m not with them. I’m a Special Officer assigned beyond this city’s outskirts. I’m currently on leave—but I couldn’t ignore this.”

Candice’s heart hammered. “You… you’re a what?”

Jeff nodded grimly. “I’ve been undercover for weeks. But it looks like that cover just got blown.”