The rain did not stop. It came down in silver sheets, rattling against the café’s windows until every drop sounded like a ticking clock. Owen sat with John and Eliza, the glow of the pendant lamps softening the world, disguising how brittle it had become.

Then the world shattered.

The crack of a rifle cut through the café’s chatter. Glass burst inward in a storm of shards. Owen saw the shimmer of the bullet—just enough to understand death was already here.

He didn’t move.

Not until a stranger lunged forward.

The man had slipped into the café minutes earlier, a hood pulled low, face unremarkable. He shoved a folded note into Owen’s hand. The boy hesitated, confused, his eyes darting across the paper: WATCH THE WINDOWS. SNIPER.

Before Owen could react, the man’s body slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. A second later the window exploded.

Blood sprayed across the table.

Screams tore the air apart. Customers scrambled, chairs clattering, cups crashing. Owen pressed against the floor, glass biting into his palms. The man who had pushed him down lay sprawled across him, trembling, crimson blooming across his back.

John was already moving—flipping the table as a shield, dragging Owen behind it, his pistol drawn in a single smooth motion. Eliza’s hands shook as she pressed herself into the corner, wide-eyed, pale.

The man coughed, wet and shallow. His hand fumbled for Owen’s collar, pulling him close with surprising strength. His whisper burned like a secret.

“I came… from the Council. Your grandfather sent me. You… must live.”

His eyes rolled back. His body slumped, weight heavy, blood warm.

Owen’s chest heaved. His fingers tightened on the note until it tore.

Outside, the sniper shifted, breath steady against cold metal. Through his scope, he saw only chaos now—tables overturned, shadows scrambling. His job had failed. No second shot. Not with the boy vanished beneath the carnage.

He broke the rifle down with clinical speed, leaving the shattered window framed in his scope for the last time. The weapon clattered into a duffel bag. He was gone before the café’s screams had finished.

The café’s floor swam with blood and broken glass. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they would arrive too late. John hauled Owen to his feet, his eyes scanning exits.

“We’re moving,” John barked.

Eliza’s voice was small, shaking. “That man… who was he?”

Owen’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer. The note was still crumpled in his hand.

The sniper’s car cut through rain-slick streets, headlights flashing across puddles. He drove fast, but not reckless, a phantom vanishing into the city’s veins. His mind was already working the escape routes—abandoned warehouses, ports, border roads. He would burn the duffel, ditch the car, disappear.

But he did not notice the unmarked black SUV that slid into traffic behind him, silent as a shark.

In a velvet-draped penthouse across the city, laughter floated over crystal glasses.

Kai Zeke leaned forward, tattoos coiled like serpents on his neck, smoke curling from his lips. “So close,” he murmured.

Rods Ronald slammed a heavy palm on the table, cane clattering against marble. “Close isn’t enough. The boy breathes, the lion roars louder.”

They weren’t alone.

In the corner of the lounge, a figure sat cloaked in shadow. His mask caught the light just enough to reveal emptiness where a face should be. His voice was low, silk wrapped in steel.

“You failed,” the masked figure said.

Kai’s grin faltered. “The shot was clean.”
“Clean is not enough,” the figure replied. “The Order does not tolerate hesitation. The boy must die.”

The silence was thick, suffocating. Even Rods shifted uncomfortably under that hollow stare.

“We pay you,” Kai snapped. “Not the other way around.”

The masked figure’s head tilted, slow, deliberate. “You pay for chaos. We own the outcome. Do not forget your place.”

And just like that, he was gone—sliding into the shadows as if he had never been there.

Kai exhaled smoke through gritted teeth. “I don’t like being handled.”
Rods chuckled darkly. “Handled? We’re on a leash, my friend. And The Order’s the one pulling it.”

Back at the Royale estate, alarms blared through marble corridors. Soldiers stormed the grounds, rifles slung tight, radios hissing. The estate became a hive of movement—engines revved, boots thundered, orders snapped.

Thanos Royale was a storm in human form, pacing the study with a glass of whiskey spilling in his hand. His roar shook the walls.

“Someone tried to kill my son! Double patrols, triple if you have to! I want every bastard with a rifle in this city dragged to me on their knees!”

Norma sat in silence, her posture regal, her eyes sharper than her husband’s rage. She said nothing, but her gaze never left Owen.

Leslie and Ben entered quietly, the weight of their presence silencing even Thanos.

Leslie’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “Enough noise. The boy lives. That is all that matters.”

Ben stepped closer, his tone smooth, dangerous. “Owen, what did he say to you? The man who took the bullet.”

Owen’s fingers tightened on the bloodstained note. His voice was calm, almost cold. “He said Grandfather sent him.”

The room fell to silence.

Leslie’s gaze flicked, unreadable. “Then you were never alone.”

Hours later, in a warehouse reeking of rust and oil, the sniper hung bound to a chair. His face was swollen, blood dripping down his jaw. Each breath was a ragged rasp.

Owen stood in the doorway, rain still clinging to his clothes. John’s heavy hand rested on the boy’s shoulder, steady, unyielding.

The room was thick with shadows, broken only by a dangling bulb. The assassin raised his head, meeting Owen’s eyes with a defiant glare.

For a moment, there was only silence. The sound of water dripping into a steel bucket. The hum of the single light.

Owen stepped forward.

His voice was quiet, but it carried a weight that silenced the room.

“You tried to kill me.”

The assassin spat blood, lips curling. “Should’ve succeeded.”

Owen’s expression didn’t change. He turned to John. “Keep him alive. For now. I want to know who holds his leash.”

John nodded once.

The boy lingered a moment longer, his gaze cold, unreadable. Then he turned and walked out, his small frame swallowed by the shadows of the warehouse.

The assassin laughed bitterly, the sound hollow in the dark. “You’re just a child.”

But even bound and bleeding, he felt it—the truth gnawing at him.

The child wasn’t breaking.

He was becoming something far worse.

Chapter 7 End