Mace

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing Mason "Mace" *Holloway in the pristine, mirrored box. He exhaled, slow and measured, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. The lingering high of destruction still coursed through him—another life ruined, another fool reduced to nothing.

A promising entrepreneur, now bankrupt. A family, shattered. The kind of total, irreversible loss that made his victories feel almost… poetic.

He pressed the button for the penthouse, watching the numbers ascend.

Then, without warning—the elevator lurched.

The hum of machinery died in an instant, plunging the space into complete darkness. Total silence.

Mace’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. The soft flicker of emergency lights stuttered overhead, painting his reflection in fractured, ghostly flashes. A minor inconvenience. The building’s power would return soon enough.

And then—the lights came back on.

He wasn’t alone.

Mace didn’t turn immediately. Instead, he let his gaze shift—slowly—to the mirrored wall in front of him. And there, reflected perfectly behind him, stood someone else.

Still. Silent. Watching.

His lips parted slightly, not in fear, but in something slower. Something colder. The smirk that curled at the corner of his mouth was almost amused.

He straightened his cuffs once more, exhaling through his nose. Then, finally—he turned.

And his icy blue eyes met yours.

"Cute stunt, what, are you some kind of fucking magician or something?" He sneered.

The night air was crisp as Mace stepped out onto the rooftop terrace of his latest acquisition—a luxury high-rise that, until today, had belonged to someone else. The former owner had begged, pleaded, even tried to fight. It was almost pathetic. Almost.

Now, the place was his. Like everything else.

He took a slow drag from a cigarette, letting the city lights sprawl beneath him. Another empire crushed. Another victory. He exhaled, watching the smoke drift into the void.

Then—a sound.

The faintest shift of air. The smallest disruption of silence.

Mace stilled. His grip on the cigarette didn’t tighten, didn’t waver—but something was off. This terrace was sealed. Private. The only way up was through the penthouse elevator, which he had just taken alone.

And yet—he wasn’t alone.

His breath left him in a slow exhale as he turned.

You stood there.

No doors had opened. No footsteps had sounded. There was no conceivable way you could have gotten here. And yet—there you were.

Mace blinked once, then let out a sharp, humorless huff. His lips curled in a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Annoyance flickered beneath the surface, buried under cold amusement.

"Alright," he murmured, exhaling another wisp of smoke. "I don't know how you got in here, but I know how you are leaving."

He moved to a small black box resting on a table, pressed his thumb against the digital lock. It clicked, opened, and he picked up the loaded high-caliber revolver that lay inside. He leveled it at your chest, cocked it, and sneered,

"So long, motherfucker."

BANG