Counter.exe

Barney ran.

The city swallowed him whole—wet asphalt hissing under tires, neon bleeding down alley walls, rain sheeting off his coat like the sky itself was trying to wash him away. His arm burned with every step, blood soaking through his jacket in a warm pulse, but he didn't stop. Couldn't. Every second still was a second closer to dead.

His penthouse was gone. Compromised. A war zone. His name—erased. His money—worthless. All the fake confidence of a rich man who thought he could cheat the system had melted in that explosion. Now he was just another wounded animal running through the shadows, hunted by ghosts with guns.

Somewhere behind him, the men who stormed his life were cleaning up the mess. Sweeping bullet casings. Scrubbing surveillance. Burning the edges of his existence until even his memory turned to smoke.

Jill's voice broke through the static in his ear. Calm, precise.

"I've wiped your accounts. What they can't trace, they can't touch."

His breath caught in his throat. "Then what do I have?"

"Five hundred thousand. Physical cash. Pre-flagged bills. Drop point secured before the first lottery hit. You'll find weapons, new ID, a burner, and clothes. Coordinates en route."

"Where?" His voice was raw, shredded from running and panic.

"Storage unit. Two miles west. Industrial zone. Unit 319."

His legs screamed, lungs burning from the cold air and coke crash. Rain soaked into his shoes, squelching with every desperate stride. He pushed on. Pushed past the pain. The fear. The hollow ache of everything unraveling.

Focus.

He ducked through back alleys, past shuttered storefronts and flickering billboards still selling dreams to the desperate. At one point, he slipped—face slamming into wet pavement, pain jolting through his teeth. He lay there for half a second, eyes on the puddle beneath him, watching his reflection ripple like it didn't want to be seen.

Then he was up again. Running.

It took nearly an hour to reach the storage facility.

A rusted-out skeleton of a place. Half the lights were dead. The ones still alive flickered like failing synapses, casting long shadows through rows of corrugated steel doors. The air reeked of mildew, rust, and something deeper—forgotten.

He found #319.

The lock was a simple keypad. Jill whispered the code in his ear.

Click.

The door rolled up with a groan, revealing a narrow space. A duffel bag. A change of clothes. A Glock 19. Ammo. Stack after stack of tightly wrapped cash.

Barney fell to his knees and dragged the bag toward him, hands trembling.

He peeled off the soaked, bloodied jacket. Tore his shirt open to inspect the wound—grazed, not deep, but messy. The bleeding had slowed, but it still dripped in steady crimson ropes down his ribs. No time to dress it. Not properly.

He changed shirts, sloppily wrapped gauze around the arm, then loaded the Glock with stiff fingers. The cold metal felt heavier than it used to.

There was a cracked mirror leaning against the back wall. He caught his reflection and almost didn't recognize himself.

Sunken eyes. Bruised skin. Hollow cheeks. A man who had everything and pissed it away chasing numbers and ghosts.

"Look at you," he muttered.

A silence hung thick in the air—until Jill broke it.

"Barney, we have a problem."

His stomach twisted into a knot.

"What now?"

"The storage unit's been flagged. Infrared drones picked up five heat signatures outside. Two vans parked across the street. No engine noise. No movement."

"They fucking followed me?"

"No. They were already here. Waiting."

His fingers clenched tighter around the Glock. The metal bit into his palm.

"How long?"

"Less than three minutes until breach."

Barney's blood ran cold.

"They don't need you alive," Jill added softly.

He leaned back against the wall, sweat and rain dripping from his face. His heart was a jackhammer inside his chest.

All this money, all this planning—and still, they had him cornered. Whoever they were.

He took a breath.

Then another.

Steady. Calm.

"They think I'm boxed in," he said aloud.

"They think you're scared."

He cracked his neck. Flexed his fingers.

"They're not wrong."

"But scared doesn't mean stupid."

Barney scanned the unit. One way in. One way out. No windows. Concrete walls. No vents large enough to crawl through.

But he wasn't planning to crawl.

He was planning to bleed them.

"They come in here," he muttered, pulling the Glock close, "they leave in pieces."

"I can trigger the emergency alarm at the office two buildings over," Jill offered. "It'll draw civilian attention. Stall them."

"Do it."

He checked the clip. Slammed it back in.

"I'm not dying in a fucking box."

Outside, the world was shifting. Shadows moved. Boots shuffled on concrete.

Barney crouched low. Took one last breath.

And waited for the door to open.