The gravel crunched beneath shoes that were entirely too small for the solemnity of Brookside Memorial.

The intercom on Richard’s desk crackled to life, broadcasting the frantic voice of the head of security, Miller.

Richard didn't hesitate. He yanked the bottom drawer of his desk open, sliding his hand past confidential merger documents to grip the cold, heavy steel of a customized Sig Sauer P226 pistol. He checked the magazine—fully loaded.

"Lock down the third-floor nursery, Higgins! Do not open that door for anyone—not even me, unless I give you the specific passcode 'Lily-White'!" Richard ordered, sprinting toward the private staircase at the back of his study.

"Mr. Blackwood! What's happening?!" Higgins screamed, her voice cracking with terror as the distant sound of shattering glass echoed through the grand foyer below.

"They're inside!" Richard roared, vaulting up the curved wooden stairs three at a time.

The sprawling mansion, usually a quiet sanctuary of wealth and solitude, instantly transformed into a war zone. Heavy boots thudded against the Italian marble in the foyer below. Muted shouts echoed up the stairwell.

Richard reached the second-floor landing just as two men in tactical gear, clad in matte-black tactical vests and balaclavas, rounded the corner. They carried suppressed submachine guns, their eyes scanning the hallway with deadly military precision.

The lead mercenary spotted Richard instantly and raised his weapon.

Bang.

Richard’s Sig Sauer barked once in the confined hallway. The deafening roar of gunfire shattered the pristine silence of the Beacon Hill estate. The lead mercenary jerked backward, taking a round straight to the shoulder plate, crashing hard against the Victorian wallpaper and sliding down to the carpet.

The second mercenary opened fire, a stream of suppressed rounds chewing through the oak door frame inches from Richard's head. Wood splinters rained down on his shoulders.

Richard ducked behind a marble pillar, returning fire with cold, calculated precision. Two quick shots punched through the second mercenary's tactical vest, sending him sprawling.

"Miller! Status!" Richard yelled into his lapel mic as he bolted down the hallway toward the private elevator leading to the third-floor nursery.

Static hissed through the earpiece. Then, a choked gasp.

"Sir... west wing compromised... they jammed the... zzzt..."

The line went dead.

Richard punched the emergency biometric panel for the private elevator, pressing his thumb hard against the glass scanner. The green light flashed—ACCESS GRANTED. The doors slid open instantly. He stepped inside, hammering the button for the third floor.

As the doors closed, sealing him in the small vertical cage, Richard looked at his reflection in the mirrored wall. His face was smeared with gunpowder and sweat. His eyes burned with a dark, terrifying fury.