The sun had just begun to dip below the skyline, painting New York City in hues of lavender and amber. Ryan Ashworth and Hazel Hargrove exited the towering office building together, laughing softly as they discussed their latest project deployment. The city pulsed around them—cars honking, neon signs flickering to life, and people brushing past them on the sidewalk, unaware of how fragile peace could be.
Ryan's hand brushed against Hazel's as they walked side by side, their fingers naturally intertwining. "Dinner or movie first?" he asked, giving her a small smile.
"Movie. Then we can eat while talking about how terrible or amazing it was," Hazel replied, grinning.
She looked radiant even under the dimming sky, her laughter echoing in Ryan's ears like music he never wanted to stop. For a moment, everything was perfect.
But then—chaos shattered the calm.
A black van screeched to a halt just a few feet ahead of them. Its doors swung open with violent urgency, and four masked figures burst out, their movements sharp and rehearsed. People on the street screamed, ducking for cover. Time slowed.
Ryan's instincts kicked in. "Hazel—run!"
But before they could move, the first gunshot cracked through the air.
"RYAN!" Hazel screamed as a man leveled a pistol at him.
The bullet fired.
And Hazel moved.
She shoved him back with all her strength, and the sound of the shot was deafening. Ryan felt the warm spray against his shirt, then saw Hazel crumple to the ground.
"No! Hazel!" Ryan fell beside her, catching her in his arms. Her eyes fluttered, her breathing ragged.
Another shot rang out.
Ryan staggered as a second bullet tore into his chest. Pain bloomed like wildfire, stealing the air from his lungs. He collapsed beside Hazel, vision blurring, hearing her weak voice as the world faded.
"Live... Ryan..." she whispered, her fingers tightening weakly around his. "Please... live a happy life."
Then her hand slipped from his.
Police sirens screamed in the distance. The attackers scattered, van tires screeching as they fled the scene.
Two officers reached the couple first. One knelt beside Hazel, checking her pulse. The other checked Ryan.
"She's gone," the officer said, voice tight.
"This one's still alive! He's breathing—barely. Call it in—now!"
Later – St. Luke's Hospital
Doctors rushed through emergency corridors, shouting orders. Blood stained Ryan Ashworth's shirt as they prepped for surgery.
"Gunshot wound to the chest. Left side. No exit wound—he should be dead."
"Wait... hold on," a nurse interrupted, studying the scan. "His heart... it's on the right side. Dextrocardia."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
"He got lucky," the doctor muttered. "Damn lucky."
The emergency room was chaos. Doctors and nurses worked rapidly, barking medical terms as Ryan was wheeled in.
"Gunshot wound to the chest. Patient unresponsive. No exit wound."
They cut open his shirt. The wound was bleeding heavily—but something was off.
A cardiologist leaned in with a portable ultrasound. Then her eyes widened.
"His heart... it's on the right side. Dextrocardia. The bullet missed it by inches."
They rushed to stabilize him, removing the bullet and controlling the hemorrhage. Despite blood loss and shock, his vitals held.
After hours of surgery, Ryan was placed in a medically induced coma.
News of the shooting was carefully suppressed. Adrian's powerful family worked behind the scenes to cover the involvement of the North Fangs, keeping Adrian's name far from public ears.
But Ryan's body told its own story.
Inside his coma, his mind swirled with memories—Hazel's laughter, their late-night coding sessions, the feel of her hand in his.
But Ryan lay still, breathing... waiting to return.
In the dim-lit lounge of an exclusive underground club, the air buzzed with a low jazz tune crackling from an old speaker in the corner. The velvet-lined walls did little to soften the chill that clung to the leather chairs, nor the tension thickening between the two men inside. Johnny Rayburn, the right-hand enforcer of the Fang Gang's infamous leader, sat calmly with a half-finished whiskey in hand. Across from him, pacing like a trapped animal, was Adrian Cole—his suit wrinkled, his eyes sunken, and the polished veneer of a billionaire's son cracked beyond repair.
"You told me it'd be clean. Fast. He'd be gone, and I'd be free of that bastard," Adrian snapped, voice low but laced with fury.
Johnny didn't even flinch. He adjusted his sunglasses, unfazed. "And yet he's still breathing. Despite a bullet to the chest. Some men have luck stitched into their veins."
Adrian's laugh was sharp and bitter. "You had one job, Rayburn."
"Careful," Johnny said coolly, lifting his glass. "You're paying for blood, not loyalty. You don't get both."
Adrian's fists clenched at his sides. "I gave your boss what he wanted. Money. Access. Names. Everything. And she—Hazel—she still chose him. Again and again."
"She's dead now," Johnny said with an almost bored tone, as if discussing the weather. "So cry me a river and move on."
But Adrian's eyes darkened. "Dead wasn't the plan. Not like that. She was supposed to see him fall. Supposed to see he couldn't protect her. She was supposed to beg me to save her."
Johnny leaned forward then, the light catching the scar that ran beneath his right eye. "She jumped in front of a bullet for him, Cole. That sound like someone who was ever gonna beg?"
The silence that followed was heavy—broken only by the hiss of the vinyl. Adrian's voice came quieter now, but no less venomous. "He took everything from me."
"Then finish it," Johnny said with a nod. "I've got a guy. Inside the hospital. Clean hit. No noise. You'll never hear his name again."
Adrian didn't answer right away. He stared at the untouched drink on the table between them, his fingers twitching slightly. Then, slowly, he looked up, and something burned in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "No. Not like that. I want him to wake up. I want him to know. That she's gone. That he failed. Then I want him to die… with that pain tearing him apart."
Now that, Johnny could respect. He grinned, sharp and satisfied. "Now you're speaking my language."
Adrian's breath came shallow, ragged. "When this is over, I don't just want him dead. I want every trace of them erased. I want the name Ryan Ashworth to vanish like it never existed."
Johnny drained the last of his whiskey and stood, towering slightly over Adrian. "Erasing a name from this city's memory?" he murmured. "That costs more than blood. But I'll start the bidding."
Adrian nodded, his voice cold and certain. "Do it. Whatever it takes. Just make sure he dies… slowly. And painfully."
With a cruel smile, Johnny clapped a heavy hand on Adrian's shoulder. "Welcome to the deep end, Cole. There's no swimming back."