Raid

The city at night was alive with neon lights and cheap adrenaline, but here, thirty stories up, an icy calm reigned. Matt—a name that hung in mafia circles. The best sniper in the area, a man whose bullets always found their target faster than their victims could even comprehend their fate. He lay on the cold concrete roof, blending into the shadows of the ventilation shaft. The rifle butt rested against his shoulder, his finger barely touching the trigger. Far below, in the crosshairs of the scope, life was stirring: the target had emerged from the limo under guard. Matt held his breath. His heartbeat was steady, his pulse slowed—the perfect moment to pull the trigger. "Bad position, Matt. Too exposed, " a chilling voice said behind him before Matt could react. It all happened in a split second. Someone's strong hand grabbed his hair, roughly yanking his head back. A sharp pain erupted in his spine, and the sky above spun in a mad dance of stars. Matt tried to reach for the knife on his belt, but the stranger's other hand had already pressed a thick cloth soaked in a pungent, sickly sweet chemical to his face. ​First second: Matt instinctively jerked, trying to break free, but the grip was iron. Third second: My lungs filled with the fumes of the sleeping pill. Consciousness began to flicker treacherously, like an old lamp. Fifth second: The fingers relaxed, releasing the trusty rifle. The world around lost its clarity, turning into a thick gray fog. The last thing he felt was his limp body being caught, preventing it from falling onto the concrete. Darkness closed in. Matt fell asleep without pulling the trigger. He was no longer a hunter, but a valuable trophy in someone's dangerous game.