FirstShot.exe

Barney didn't leave his penthouse for two days.

He barely ate. Barely slept. Every shadow outside his window stretched too long. Every noise in the hallway made his pulse spike. He kept the blinds shut, lights dimmed, and his gun within arm's reach. Jill monitored everything—security feeds, police scanners, burner bank accounts, traffic cams, even weather patterns.

Looking. Always looking.

The man in the gray suit hadn't returned. But that somehow made it worse.

Stillness felt unnatural. Like a held breath before a scream.

On the third night, something changed.

It started with static—barely audible, like a whisper under his music. Then came the flicker. Just once. Every screen in the penthouse—TV, laptop, tablet—blinked off and back on in perfect sync.

Barney sat up on the couch, veins going cold.

"Jill," he said quietly.

"I'm here," she replied.

"That blackout... you see that?"

A pause. "Yes. It originated from within the building. Not the grid."

Barney stood slowly. The pistol was already in his waistband. "What does that mean?"

"It means someone's inside."

He didn't move. Didn't breathe. The silence became louder than any noise.

Then the intercom on the wall crackled.

"Barney."

His own name, spoken in a voice he didn't recognize. Calm. Cold. Male.

The sound cut off.

His blood turned to ice.

"Jill?" he whispered.

"No known origin. The intercom was accessed manually... from inside the service room."

His knees almost gave. The service room was two floors below—restricted access. No one should've been able to override it.

He bolted to the table, grabbed the gun with sweaty fingers. "Tell me what you see. Now."

A heartbeat later: "Five men. Entering the building through the delivery bay. No camera record before entry. Armed. Ascending via service stairwell."

Barney's voice cracked. "How the fuck are they invisible?"

"They are not. But someone is cleaning the digital traces in real time. Faster than I can track."

His heart thundered. "Where are they?"

"Twenty-second floor."

He glanced at the clock—2:47 AM.

He was on the 30th.

Maybe two minutes.

Then the hallway light outside his door flickered.

Not the elevator.

Not even the stairs.

The private service access.

They weren't coming.

They were already here.

A metallic crack shattered the air—the sound of a breaching charge detonating.

The door handle burst apart like a popped bone.

Adrenaline hit him like a car crash.

He dove behind the kitchen island just as the front door exploded open.

Heavy boots hit the floor.

Muffled voices.

The soft, terrifying click of a safety being flipped off.

They weren't here to talk. They were here to erase him.

Barney's hand clenched the pistol so tight it shook. He forced himself to look—just enough.

Four men. Tactical black. Suppressed weapons. Helmet cams. No insignias. No words.

Professionals.

Killers.

Barney had fantasized about dying rich. Not like this. Not hunted in his own home.

Every instinct screamed to run. But there was nowhere to run—except through them.

Unless...

"Jill," he hissed. "Options!"

"Fire escape is compromised. Primary exit: compromised. Closet hatch. Right side wall. Now."

He didn't think. He moved.

Gunfire shattered the kitchen behind him. Splinters and stone fragments slashed his skin.

He fired back—blindly. A scream. Maybe a hit.

But they didn't hesitate.

A round grazed his arm, tearing flesh.

He crashed through the bedroom, slamming into the closet. His blood smeared across the wall as he searched frantically.

"Where—"

"Right wall. Lower panel. I mapped the blueprints months ago," Jill said. "The developer built emergency maintenance access into three of the penthouses. Yours is one."

Click.

The panel shifted open.

A narrow crawlspace. Dusty. Claustrophobic. A forgotten utility shaft meant for emergencies—never meant to be used like this.

Barney had lived here for months and never noticed it.

As he crawled through the narrow shaft, the metal scraping his back, Jill's voice softened in his ear.

"I didn't tell you this before," she said, "but that hidden shaft was one of the reasons I suggested this penthouse when you were looking."

Barney blinked into the dark. His breath caught.

"What?"

"It wasn't just the view. This building was part of a failed luxury survivalist project in the early 2000s. Hidden service routes, backup power, filtered air systems... all sealed up and forgotten when the market crashed. Most buyers never even knew."

A beat.

"I did. I thought it was better you didn't know—until you needed it."

He squeezed through just as bullets chewed through the closet behind him.

The smell of gunpowder and burning plastic followed him into the dark.

Then—Silence.

Only his breath. Ragged. Desperate.

His arm throbbed, leaking blood down to his wrist. His head swam from blood loss and panic.

But he was alive.

Barely.

"Jill," he gasped. "Status."

"Penthouse breached. No pursuit yet. But they know where you live. This is not surveillance anymore."

Barney leaned his head against the cold metal wall. Sweat burned in his eyes. His heart wouldn't slow down.

"They want me dead," he muttered.

There was a long pause.

Then Jill replied, softer than ever before.

"Yes. And next time, they won't miss."