The briefing room was dim, lit only by the glow of a projector humming at the center of the table. The satellite image displayed on the wall was grainy but clear enough: a warehouse buried deep in the city’s industrial wasteland. A place no one would miss, even if it burned to the ground.

  Colonel Harris stood at the head of the table, arms folded, expression carved from stone. “Captain Elena Winters,” he said, addressing her by rank. “You’ve been hand-picked for this one. High-value targets. No room for error.”

  Stormshot—no, Captain Winters—nodded once, already scanning the logistics.

  “Victor and Lila Kane,” Harris continued. “They run weapons like candy through this city. Every back-alley warlord you can name owes their firepower to these two. Tonight, they’re overseeing a major shipment—illegal arms bound for foreign soil. They don’t walk out of that warehouse. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Harris paused. “There’s one complication. They have a son—ten years old. Name’s Arlo. Not on-site, but... collateral, if you care to think about it like that.”

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  Elena’s jaw tensed.

  “We’re not sending you in blind. Intel confirms the boy will be home, far from the action. He won’t witness it, but… you take out his parents, and that kid wakes up an orphan tomorrow.”

  The room fell silent. The hum of the projector seemed louder now, and the image of the warehouse suddenly felt colder, heavier.

  “Elena,” Harris said, softer now. “You don’t have to like it. But we don’t get to pick clean jobs. We get the ones no one else will touch.”

  She didn’t respond—not with words. Instead, she stood, folder in hand, and left the room.

  She found a quiet corner outside near the armory, leaned against the wall, and pulled out her phone. Her hands were steady, but her gut churned like she’d swallowed nails.

  Rick answered on the second ring.

  “Elena?” His voice was warm. Home.

  “I need you to talk me down,” she said flatly.

  There was a pause. Rick knew her too well to ask stupid questions.

  “How old?” he asked quietly.

  “Ten.”

  Another pause. “And you're sure it has to be done?”

  “They’re the worst of the worst , Rick. Top of the chain. We take them down, we stop entire wars before they start. But this kid… he’s not part of that.”

  Rick exhaled slowly. “Then this is one of those missions you’ll carry forever.”

  She shut her eyes. “I’m not built for parenting or politics. I’m a trigger puller. This is what I do. But God, Rick… I’m sending a boy into the same kind of pain I swore I’d never create.”

  “You’re not,” Rick said. “You’re doing what no one else has the stomach for. And if that boy ever learns the truth, maybe he’ll grow up in a world that’s just a little less broken because of you.”

  “I needed to hear that,” she whispered.

  “You’ll come home after this,” Rick said. “We’ll deal with the guilt then. Together.”

  She hung up without saying goodbye—because if she said it, it might mean goodbye for real.

  Elena turned away from the wall, face steel again. Whatever doubts she carried, she’d bury them under the silence of the sniper’s scope. Just like always.

  ---