The surgical steel gleamed under the harsh nursery light, a cold sliver of rationality trapped in a room choked by panic.

Automatic gunfire hammered against the side of Dominic’s SUV, chewing through the bulletproof panels like paper. Shards of glass exploded outward as bodyguards scrambled for cover behind concrete barricades, returning fire toward the silos.

"Stay down!" Dominic yelled, grabbing Evelyn by the waist and hauling her behind the thick, reinforced engine block of the vehicle.

Bullets whined overhead, chipping sparks off the pavement. Evelyn didn't scream. She didn't cower. Her hand immediately slid into the pocket of her coat, fingers wrapping around a small, heavy object she had pocketed from the nursery earlier—the amber vial of hemlock.

"They aren't trying to kill us," Evelyn shouted over the deafening roar of gunfire.

Dominic loaded a fresh magazine into his submachine gun, his eyes narrowed. "What do you mean they aren't trying to kill us? They're shooting at our heads!"

"They’re pinning us," Evelyn corrected, pointing toward the open gates of the shipping yard. "Look at the perimeter guards. They aren't shooting back from the gatehouse. Someone disabled the electronic locks from the inside."

Dominic’s radio crackled to life with static and frantic screams.

Boss! Gate Two is breached! A black van just rammed the barrier—

The transmission cut off with a wet, sickening crunch of metal and a dying gasp.

"Viktor!" Dominic barked into his collar mic. "Report!"

I'm pinned behind the forklift! Viktor’s voice yelled over the din. There's too many of them, boss! They're wearing tactical gear with no insignia! Professional cleaners!

Dominic knew what that meant. In the underworld, "cleaners" weren't rival gang members; they were state-sanctioned mercenaries or internal syndicate executioners sent to erase a liability.

And tonight, the liability was the entire leadership of the Vale-Hart alliance.

"Evelyn," Dominic said, his gaze locking onto hers amidst the flying lead. "Can you handle a firearm?"

Evelyn looked down at the submachine gun Viktor had dropped near the front wheel. Without a word of hesitation, she reached out, her fingers deftly checking the safety, the chamber, and the recoil spring with the practiced familiarity of someone who had spent hours breaking down surgical instruments.

"I prefer scalpels," Evelyn said coldly, racking the slide. "But human anatomy is human anatomy. The mechanics are remarkably similar."

Dominic felt a strange, fierce surge of adrenaline—and something dangerously close to respect—flare deep in his chest.