Chapter 2: The Shadow's Target

Damian Voss leaned against the rooftop railing of a five-star hotel in Kuala Lumpur, his sharp eyes tracking the man in the luxury penthouse below. A chilled breeze brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of rain and city smog. He barely noticed. His focus was locked on the room’s sole occupant—Anton Markov, a Russian middleman with deep connections in the black market.

Markov was the kind of man Damian usually avoided. Brutal, paranoid, and always guarded. But tonight, Damian had no choice.

His earpiece crackled. “Are we doing this, or do you just like standing in the rain?”

Damian smirked at the voice of his tech specialist, Lena Torres, who was monitoring the security feed from a van two blocks away.

“I was enjoying the view,” he muttered, adjusting the small grappling device strapped to his wrist.

“Well, enjoy it on the way down. You’ve got a ten-minute window before Markov’s security check-in.”

Damian didn’t hesitate. He leaped over the edge. The grappling hook hissed as it unwound, lowering him smoothly toward the penthouse balcony. He landed without a sound, rolling onto the marble floor as he disengaged the line.

Inside, Markov poured himself a drink at the mini-bar, oblivious to the danger. Damian slipped a slim, silenced pistol from his belt and crept forward.

“Don’t move,” he said calmly, leveling the weapon at Markov’s back.

The Russian froze. Then, slowly, he turned, his thick fingers still wrapped around a glass of whiskey. A flicker of amusement crossed his scarred face.

“Voss,” he said in a thick accent. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Damian’s grip tightened. “I need the file.”

Markov chuckled, unbothered. “You always did get straight to business.” He took a slow sip before placing the glass down. “The Kanjir Citadel… That’s what you’re after, isn’t it?”

Damian didn’t respond, but his silence was answer enough.

Markov smirked. “Word is, Langley already has his man on it.”

Damian’s jaw clenched. He had expected competition, but not from Ethan Carter—a man known for uncovering history, not stealing it.

“Where’s the file?” Damian asked again, his patience wearing thin.

Markov sighed, then gestured toward a safe behind a framed painting. Damian moved cautiously, keeping the gun trained on the Russian as he reached the keypad.

“Combination?”

Markov’s smirk widened. “You don’t need it.”

Damian’s instincts screamed too late. The second he turned his head, Markov lunged. The glass in his hand shattered against Damian’s wrist, sending pain shooting up his arm. Damian recoiled, but Markov was already reaching for the alarm panel.

Damian reacted on instinct. A swift kick to the knee sent Markov crashing against the bar. The Russian barely had time to curse before Damian drove his elbow into his throat, cutting off his breath. He collapsed, gasping.

“I tried to be nice,” Damian muttered, shaking the pain from his wrist.

He grabbed a knife from the bar and jammed it into the panel, shorting out the alarm system before flipping open the safe. Inside, a single USB drive gleamed under the dim light. He pocketed it and turned back to Markov, who was glaring at him through pained gasps.

“If Langley gets to the citadel first, you know what happens,” Markov rasped.

Damian hesitated for half a second. Then he stepped back toward the balcony. “Then I’ll have to make sure he doesn’t.”

With that, he vanished into the night, leaving Markov seething behind him.

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