The Hôtel des Catalans sat like a dying king above the harbor — faded grandeur, peeling walls, broken chandeliers. Once a refuge for the elite, now just another forgotten ruin where ghosts came to drink.
And tonight, it would become a battlefield.
Asher sat alone at the hotel bar, swirling whiskey in a chipped glass, his scarred knuckles tapping against the rim in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
He hated waiting.
He hated what he was about to do even more.
But orders were orders.
Six hours earlier.
Asher hadn't known who they'd send. He expected some Black Sun merc, maybe one of the clean-shaven MI6 washouts. Instead, she had walked into the abandoned warehouse in Naples.
Valeria Strand.
Victor Strand's only child. A sharp-dressed nightmare with blood-red lipstick and eyes like razors.
She sat down opposite him, legs crossed elegantly, folder in hand.
"Damien Voss dies tonight," she said calmly, sliding the folder forward. "We know where he'll be. We know you're his security."
Asher lit his cigarette with shaking fingers, not from fear — from rage. "If I wanted him dead, I could've done it a dozen times already."
Valeria's smile was made of knives. "And yet you haven't."
She leaned forward, her voice soft. "Do this for us, Asher. Walk away rich. Debt-free. Alive."
Then she slid the final piece across the table.
A photograph.
His brother. Somewhere in Istanbul. Held hostage. Bound. Bruised.
Alive — for now.
"Loyalty is expensive," she whispered. "But family is priceless."
Now, at the hotel, Asher stared at his glass like it held the meaning of life.
He wasn't afraid of death. He'd invited it to dinner more times than he could count.
But betrayal — real betrayal — wasn't a bullet to the head.
It was a quiet word behind a friend's back.
And that's what he was about to do to Damien.
Footsteps behind him.
Damien appeared from the shadows, rain still dripping off his coat, mask half-concealed in his collar. Pale grey eyes full of suspicion but no fear.
"You picked the meeting spot," Damien said quietly. "Odd for someone who doesn't drink."
Asher forced a grin. "Call it nostalgia."
They stood in silence for a beat too long.
"Where's the girl?" Asher asked.
"Mara? Close."
More silence.
Asher could feel the weight of the pistol under his jacket like a screaming confession.
Then came the soft static in his ear — Valeria's voice.
"Do it now."
Asher didn't move.
"Now, Asher. Kill him."
Still, he didn't move.
"Problem?" Damien asked softly, eyes narrowing.
Asher's heart hammered.
He could feel both futures unfolding in front of him like two loaded guns:Betray Damien. Save his brother.Stay loyal. Die tonight.
"Do it, or your brother's dead."
Asher's fingers twitched.
And then, something shifted.
A single word, barely audible, spoken from Damien's lips: "Family."
It wasn't a threat. It was understanding.
"You're not the only one they're holding hostage," Damien whispered. "They've got all of us, Asher."
Asher's hand hovered over the pistol.
Then dropped to his side.
He hit the earpiece, crushing it with his thumb.
"Go to hell, Valeria."
The first Black Sun assassin stepped through the door a second later.
Asher shot him in the face.
Glass shattered. Chaos exploded. Gunfire in confined spaces, screaming steel against old furniture.
Damien dove behind the bar, returning fire with cold precision.
Two more mercs dropped before they'd even cleared the staircase.
"This isn't how I wanted to retire," Asher muttered, reloading.
"We all die eventually," Damien said, cold and calm, snapping another magazine into place. "Just depends who you take with you."
Outside, Mara Sen was sprinting up the cobblestone street, gun drawn, sirens echoing behind her, running straight toward the storm.
The betrayal wasn't complete.
But the war had just begun.