Tesmee sat like a queen upon her throne — tall-backed, commanding — in the vast home office of her secluded estate on the city's outskirts.
The walls around her gleamed with polished black marble, and the golden light from the chandelier danced across a table strewn with blueprints, maps, and open laptops.
Three of her most trusted men stood before her, the thick scent of whiskey hanging heavily in the air.
None dared sit.
Each man represented a weapon in her arsenal.
One was an assassin — the type who could slip through shadows and kill before a heartbeat could pass.
Another was a hacker — a phantom who could cripple cities with nothing more than a keyboard.
And the third was a navigator — a man whose knowledge of the city's secret veins and backstreets was unparalleled.
Tonight, they laid out a plan drenched in blood.
Their target: one of Tyson Hale's prized warehouses — along with the 102 men stationed there like loyal dogs.
Three expert snipers would lead the charge, slicing through the guards before Tesmee's ground forces moved in like vultures.
Every step, every bullet, every truck — it was all charted with brutal precision.
Failure was not just unacceptable — it was unforgivable.
And Tesmee, known for her cold-blooded wrath, left no room for second chances.
Across the city, inside the glowing warmth of the Hale mansion, a different world unfolded.
Tyson should have been at peace, cradling his newborn son, soaking in the laughter of his family.
But unease clung to him like smoke.
He could feel it — the quiet before a storm.
In the solitude of his office, Tyson grappled with the impossible:
How do you destroy a woman who once carried pieces of your soul... without tearing yourself apart?
He clenched his fists, the image of Tesmee flashing in his mind — her calculating eyes, her ruthless smile.
Tyson knew one truth with chilling certainty:
If Tesmee ever decided to go after Ashley, she wouldn't hesitate. And no one — not him, not an army — would be able to stop her.
The night of reckoning arrived.
A Sunday cloaked in silence, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Under the black veil of the sky, Tesmee's operatives moved into place.
Tiger. Vhernom. Chan.
Three snipers — ghosts in human form — slithered onto the rooftops surrounding Tyson's warehouse.
Each man adjusted his rifle — Dragunov SVDs gleaming faintly under the moonlight — their gloved fingers resting lightly on the triggers.
Far below, 102 of Tyson's men hustled without a clue.
Loading crates. Counting ammunition. Preparing for battles that would never come.
From her own perch a half-mile away, Tesmee watched through high-grade night-vision binoculars, her gloved hand toying idly with the pistol resting at her side.
Behind her, engines growled low — 39 trucks, each manned and ready to swallow up the weapons once the killing was done.
Her hacker sliced into the city's surveillance grid, silencing every watchful eye.
The navigator whispered over radios, guiding the trucks into formation.
Tesmee didn't rush.
She watched the seconds tick by.
20:59.
21:00.
Her left wrist buzzed.
Without looking away from the warehouse, Tesmee pressed a finger to her earpiece and spoke a single word:
"Now."
The assassin beside her relayed the command.
And then—
The night exploded.
Silent at first — the muted thuds of suppressed rifles singing death from above.
Men fell like wheat before a scythe, crumpling to the ground with barely a cry.
Chaos rippled through the warehouse, but it was too late.
The first wave had already been claimed.
Each sniper was a surgeon — firing 34 rounds, changing magazines in swift, practiced motions, never missing a beat.
They worked in silence, the only sound the mechanical rhythm of their rifles.
Within twenty minutes, 68 men lay dead.
The trucks crept closer under the navigator's hand, their headlights killed, moving through the night like silent beasts.
The hacker worked feverishly, jamming frequencies, blacking out cameras, cutting off any scream for help before it could reach Tyson's ears.
The last forty minutes were a slaughter.
Men tried to flee — only to be picked off with merciless precision.
The warehouse, once a hub of Tyson's growing empire, became a graveyard.
When the final shot rang out, a grim silence settled.
No orders.
No movement.
Only the dead, and the dust swirling over them.
Tesmee lowered her binoculars, a slow, satisfied smile curving her lips.
Her trucks rolled in.
Her men moved swiftly, gathering crates of weapons with the same cold efficiency with which they'd taken lives.
Manifest lists left behind by Tyson's men guided them to the most valuable caches.
Not a single bullet was wasted.
Not a single soul was left standing.
And Tesmee—
She slipped her phone back into her pocket without a single call made.
Without a single word spoken to the man she had just gutted from the shadows.
The following day...
Before the city even stirred from its dreams, the streets carried an unfamiliar weight.
An eerie quiet clung to every alleyway.
Phones buzzed with news no one dared believe.
Doors stayed locked.
Blinds stayed drawn.
And deep within the Hale estate, Tyson's world — and the delicate future he fought so hard to protect — was about to crack open.