An eight-year-old girl stood in the pouring rain for nearly two hours just to return my wallet. When I offered her $500, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Doing the right thing isn’t something people should have to pay you for.” I had commanded thousands of soldiers—but that little girl was about to teach me the hardest lesson of my life.

The apartment descended into absolute chaos in a fraction of a second. The two operatives standing in the shattered doorway instantly unslung their suppressed carbines, raising them toward Arthur with professional speed. But Arthur was faster—years of muscle memory and tactical supremacy guided his actions. Before their barrels could clear their chests, two deafening cracks echoed through the confined space of the apartment.

Both mercenaries dropped their weapons, clutching their shoulders as they stumbled backward into the hallway, swearing violently in low, clipped tones.

"Elena! Marisol! Get down!" Arthur barked, never taking his eyes off the doorway as he backed toward them, using his body as a human shield.

Elena scrambled across the floor, sweeping Marisol up into her arms and dragging her behind the heavy oak dresser in the corner of the room. Marisol buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, trembling violently, but her small hand remained tightly clenched around the silver coin in her pocket.

"General, you're getting predictable," a voice echoed from the stairwell outside.

A man stepped calmly into the shattered doorway, leaning casually against the broken frame. He wore an expensive charcoal-gray tailored suit that looked entirely out of place in the run-down tenement building, but it was his face that made Arthur’s blood run cold—sharp features, pale skin, and a thin, mocking smile that reached cold, dead eyes.

Victor Blackwood.

"Victor," Arthur said, his voice dropping an octave, steady and lethal. "I thought federal prison had cured you of playing soldier."

Blackwood chuckled, a dry, grating sound. "Federal prison is for men who lack imagination, Arthur. Men like you and me—we don't belong behind bars. We belong at the top. But you had to interfere, didn't you? You had to play the noble hero over a lost wallet and an insignificant little girl."

"She’s not insignificant," Arthur growled, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. "She’s everything you’ll never be: honest, brave, and human."

Blackwood’s smile faded, replaced by a flash of genuine venom. "Sentimentality is a tactical weakness, General. And today, it’s going to get you killed. Look outside."

Arthur flicked his gaze toward the broken window for a fraction of a second. Through the mist, at least four more tactical vehicles had blocked off both ends of Chestnut Street. Red and blue laser sights crisscrossed the walls of the apartment, painting the room in a web of inescapable death. Marcus’s encrypted comms link crackled in Arthur’s ear: *General, we’re jammed. They’ve cut all local frequencies. You’re completely surrounded.*

Arthur didn't blink. He looked back at Blackwood with a terrifying, calm composure. "You think numbers make you strong, Victor? You forgot the first rule of command."

Blackwood frowned. "What rule is that?"