CISPA:Sons of Storm

The man stood outside the wide-open door, looking emotionless after the gunshots. Blood was squirting out of Victor Vex's neck where the first bullet went, while another squeezed itself into the drug lord's heart. Was that enough? He tightened his grip on the Desert Eagle he had. Is this it? Is this all Victor Vex is about? Just two shots?

He wanted to watch Vex's last moment. He had always wanted to. It was a dream come true. But not exactly like this. He wanted him to suffer. To feel extreme pain and beg for his life. He had replayed several painful ways he wanted his death to be in his head—even in his dreams. But that doesn't matter anymore. Vex is dead or at least, dying. All that matters now is for him to get out of the 94-storey, five-star hotel building without getting caught.

One of Vex's men was already crouched down beside him, putting pressure on the wound. Vex gasped for breath. The other one came running at the Man. The Man leapt into the air and kicked him before dropping to the ground. Vex's bodyguard was sent flying back into the room. It all happened in an instant.

The other man—the one putting pressure on Vex's wound—stood up and drew a knife. No! Not today. I don't want to delay myself, the Man thought. I have wasted enough time here.

Without delay, hesitation, or anything of the sort, the Man picked a race.

He wasn't usually this clumsy on any of his 'drills'—as he calls the dangerous missions he goes on. He always had about three to four escape plans and like five attack plans. But today, it was different. Victor Vex was different. And besides, this was his first murder. Not that he was shaken by the act. It's just...

"Ethan, you there?" a voice hissed through his earpiece.

---

A van was parked in the vast parking lot of the hotel building. Along one wall, a row of sleek monitors glowed in shifting blues and greens, casting reflections on the polished black paneling of the van. Cables curled like veins beneath the stand-alone cabinet, connecting an array of devices—signal jammers, decryption modules, and compact servers stacked neatly into recessed shelves.

A pair of comfortable chairs were bolted to the floor, facing the main workstation—where Ethan's tech specialist, Royce, sat, fingers flying across a blue-lit keyboard. The ceiling glimmered with narrow LED strips, bathing the space in a cold, focused light. Above the screens, a small surveillance feed looped multiple live angles—street cams, drones, and the building schematics.

On the opposite side, a cushioned bench doubled as storage, with hidden compartments holding weapons, smoke capsules, and compact gear kits. Everything had a purpose. Everything was within arm's reach. It wasn't a van—it was a mobile nerve center, built for precision, secrecy, and speed, used only for Ethan's 'drills'.

Royce's voice cracked through the tiny earpiece in Ethan's right ear, smooth as always but laced with that quiet urgency that most sensible men would notice. He could see multiple men already moving up the elevator to the scene, and four were after Ethan now.

"You still sittin' in there like it's Sunday service, boy?"

Ethan smirked, still running, adjusting the strap on his shoulder bag. "I'm moving, old man. I think I'm going for the fire escape. Slow, but it beats getting my face introduced to somebody's boot...or bullet. Who knows?"

There was a low chuckle on the other end, dry and seasoned. "If you move any slower, they gonna offer you coffee and a chair before they drag you out and peel your skin off for killing their boss."

Ethan slipped around the corner, eyes scanning thehallway. "You wanna come do it yourself?"

"Mm-mm," Royce replied, a smile evident in his tone. "My running days ended. Besides, ain't got no personal grudge against the bastard. You the one who wants him bad. I'm just tryin' not to explain to your mama why her boy got caught playing lamb in a building full o' wolves."

"I'll tell her I went out in style," Ethan muttered, easing the fire door open. "Slow motion... wind in my hair. She's smiling in heaven right now."

"You ain't got enough hair for all that dramatics," Royce shot back. Then, a pause. "They're comin' up the west stairwell. Three, maybe four. You've got thirty seconds, tops."

Ethan didn't reply right away—just slipped through the narrow stairwell and began descending, boots quiet against metal steps. His voice came back low, focused.

"I'm in. It's tight, but I'm good."

Royce exhaled through the mic, a sound like relief hiding behind gruffness. "Keep your head down. Heartbeat low. Ego even lower. I'll see you outside...or probably at home."

A grin tugged at Ethan's lips despite the tension pressing in. "Appreciate the love."

"Wasn't love," Royce muttered. "It's insurance. You still owe me lunch. Now move,young man."

And just like that, the line went quiet. Ethan kept moving, steps steady as always.

---

And just like that, the line went quiet. Ethan kept moving, steps steady as always.

Once outside, he found himself in a narrow alley, the darkness wrapping around him like a curtain as he moved briskly—but with the calm charisma of a man who knew exactly what he had just done. He didn't notice it was that dark. The mission was complete. Victor Vex was dead. All that remained was to disappear—completely and cleanly—from anything remotely connected to the 94-storey hotel behind him or even Vex.

His black sports car sat waiting like a loyal hound at the end of the alley, the metallic beauty was graced as it caught the faint glow from a distant streetlamp. It hadn't been there when he went in. Must have been Royce, he thought, lips twitching faintly. The old man was always three steps ahead, even when he grumbled like he wasn't.

The alley was quiet. Just the distant rumble of traffic, the occasional honk, and a low hum from a neon sign flickering overhead. To his left, he spotted a rusted dumpster crouched beside a graffiti-stained brick wall. He walked toward it, eyes sweeping once more for witnesses. None. Not even a shadow dared follow him now.

He peeled off the black tactical outfit piece by piece—lightweight, fire-resistant fabric soaked in the scent of gunpowder and sweat. His mask came off last, damp with breath and tension. From inside the lining of his duffel bag, he pulled out a small container of paraffin and unscrewed the cap. Without hesitation, he poured it over the clothes, watching the fabric darken and cling to the liquid.

Then came the lighter. A flick. A spark. A flame. The fire caught instantly, roaring to life as if the clothes themselves were eager to be erased. The heat surged, illuminating his face for a second—young, sharp, focused. He stood there briefly, the dancing flames reflecting in his eyes, before turning away.

Now came the transformation.

From the trunk, he pulled out a pressed black suit, smooth as nightfall and tailored to his build with a precision that bordered on perfection. He slipped into it with practiced ease—shirt, trousers, jacket—then knotted a narrow tie and smoothed his collar. With his gloves off and hair slicked back, he looked nothing like the man who had just assassinated a drug lord. He looked like any ambitious executive walking the streets of New York after a long evening meeting.

Sliding into the driver's seat of the sports car, he gripped the leather wheel, the engine roaring to life at his touch. No fanfare. No tire screech. Just a smooth glide out of the alley and into the veins of the city.

The lights of Manhattan stretched ahead, indifferent and eternal. Behind him, firelight flickered inside a dumpster, eating away at the last traces of who he had been just twenty minutes ago.

He didn't look back. There was no need. The job was done.

And Ethan Thompson had just vanished into the night.