Z A Y N
The manor didn’t feel like a building anymore. It felt like a battlefield that had forgotten it was ever meant to hold life, as if whatever history it once carried had been stripped down to nothing but violence and ruin. Gunfire cracked through the air in relentless bursts, louder than thought, sharper than instinct, echoing off collapsing walls and ricocheting through hollow corridors like thunder trapped inside bone. The sound didn’t fade, it multiplied, overlapping, pressing in from every direction until it became part of the air itself. Dust hung thick and suffocating, coating the inside of my lungs, turning every breath into something dragged and incomplete, heavy enough to slow even reflex. The floor beneath our boots trembled constantly, reacting to every explosion, every misstep, every body hitting the ground with a weight that carried finality.
But this time, we weren’t walking into hell blindly. We weren’t guessing, reacting, or hoping to make it out. We knew exactly what we were stepping into, and more importantly, we knew how to control it. We owned it. Every broken corridor, every blind corner, every shattered entry point. it was ours to move through, not something that could trap us.
Reinforcements had arrived, not quietly, not with hesitation, but with force that demanded attention. They came in numbers that shifted the balance instantly, men pouring in from every entry point, boots slamming hard against concrete in sharp, synchronized rhythm. Weapons were raised before thought could intervene, movements precise, calculated, efficient. The tide didn’t just change, it snapped into place, and for the first time since entering, the pressure eased just enough to allow clarity.
Not comfort. Never that.
Just enough to think.
I moved through the chaos like it belonged to me, like I had mapped it in my head long before stepping into it. My gun stayed steady in my hand, each shot controlled, measured, deliberate. One man dropped before he could process what was happening, his body collapsing with a dull impact that barely registered. Another followed, turning too late, reacting too slow. Blood sprayed across the cracked walls, dark and immediate, blending into the layers of grime already embedded into them, as if the place itself absorbed it without resistance.
But something was off.
Not obvious.
Not loud.
Subtle enough to slip past anyone who wasn’t looking for it.
Wrong rhythm. Wrong formation.
These weren’t Adrian’s men.
I grabbed one before he could fall, catching him by the collar and slamming him hard against the wall. The impact cracked through the noise, my forearm pressing into his throat, cutting off his breath as his body struggled weakly against mine. I didn’t give him space. Didn’t give him time.
“Who do you work for?” I demanded, pressing the cold barrel of my gun into his jaw, forcing his head back.
He coughed, choking, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips, his eyes unfocused but desperate.
“Costa…” he managed, voice breaking around the word.
The name didn’t just register.
It hit. Heavy. Sharp.
For a second, everything slowed, not the fight, not the chaos, but inside my head, something shifted, recalculated, restructured.
Costa. An ally. Was.
My grip tightened without thought, my forearm pressing harder into his throat.
“Say that again,” I said, quieter now, my voice losing volume but gaining weight.
YOU ARE READING
BLOOD AND HEART
Acción"He had many people's blood on his hands and one woman in his heart." She woke up with a pounding headache, a strange tattoo, and memories of her family being brutally attacked. All because of the documents she stole. Now, protected by one of the wo...
