1:00 AM, the doorbell of an apartment rang, signaling someone's arrival.
This apartment was located on the twenty-third floor of a residential building in the Upper East Side—not The Carlyle where Gregory and Noel were staying, but Nate's private hideout that no one knew except himself. The room inside was neatly arranged yet minimalist; a pale white sofa, a glass cabinet containing a collection of books and weapons, and several security monitors displaying footage from hidden cameras in the corridor. This place was Nate's second nest, where he stored important documents that not even Gregory knew about.
A man who was sound asleep in his bed was disturbed by the vibration of an incoming text message on his phone. The man—Nate—opened his eyes warily, an old habit that never left him even in sleep. His reflexes were still intact; his hand immediately moved to grab something under the pillow; a small revolver that he always kept there. He got up from his lying position to reach for the flat object lying not far away. A moment after reading the contents of the message, the man hurriedly got up, grabbed a dark grey vest coat. Putting it on while walking toward the table and opening a drawer, taking something from there; once he found it, he immediately put it into a backpack that had been slung over his shoulder for who knows how long.
The contents of the message were short, just one sentence from an unknown number: They know your location. No name, no signature. Nate knew who the sender was. He had been in this world long enough to learn that warnings like this rarely came from friends. However, he also knew that ignoring them was just as dangerous as believing them.
The apartment doorbell was still ringing, shifting his attention to that brown-painted doorframe; slowly his legs walked toward the door.
"Who is it?" he asked flatly, the man's hazel irises staring carefully at the small monitor screen mounted on the wall near the door.
On the screen appeared a young man with straight black hair tied back, wearing a dark blue jacket and carrying a pizza box. His expression was relaxed, even a little bored—too relaxed for someone delivering food at one in the morning, Nate thought. In the criminal world, ordinary-looking things were often the most dangerous.
"I'm Petya, from a 24-hour food delivery," answered someone from outside, his tone sounding casual.
A pair of eyes narrowed. On the monitor screen, a young man could be seen carrying a pizza box. Nate thought about not opening the door, but he also knew that if they had already found this place, refusing to open it would only delay the meeting—not avoid it. Besides, curiosity had always been a hitman's greatest enemy. His hand slowly opened the door for the food delivery person outside.
The moment the door opened, a young man with straight black hair and a slim build, named Petya, walked in while opening the pizza box he was carrying and exclaimed, "Surprise!!!"
Turns out the contents of the pizza box were a gun. The young man named Petya aimed the gun at the apartment owner and pulled the trigger.
Time seemed to slow down. Nate saw the pistol's muzzle gaping black, Petya's finger beginning to pull the trigger, and in a fraction of a second, his brain had calculated two possibilities: dodge or attack. He chose both.
A loud, piercing sound was heard, deafening. Before Petya's shot could hit its target, the man quickly kicked his hand. His movement was not just a reflex—this was the result of thousands of hours of training, of more than a decade of surviving in equally brutal fields. His body moved before his mind could finish its calculations. The shot missed, hitting the glass cabinet in the main room.
Quickly, the man counterattacked; his lightning-fast, trained movements reached from behind his vest coat, returning fire with several shots.
Two shots. The first bullet pierced the wall where Petya had stood a second earlier. The second bullet destroyed a vase in the corner of the room. Petya had already moved—agile, like a snake avoiding an eagle's pounce.
A miss. The nimble young man dodged. His movements were fast; he hid behind the wall in the dimly lit main room of the apartment, as the brightest lights had been deliberately turned off.
"Nate the Killer Rabbit is truly amazing; now I can see your real face," the young man said from behind the wall, reloading his assault rifle.
The sound of metal clashing as the magazine was changed. Nate recognized that sound—this young man was a professional, not just a hired thug. The hands that reloaded ammunition in the darkness without hesitation were hands that had done it many times before.
Nate only smiled faintly at the compliment. "You've got some nerve coming here and shooting at me directly." He returned the praise.
Behind that smile, Nate was calculating. The distance to the door, the amount of ammunition left, the possibility that Petya had backups, the time it would take Gregory to realize something was wrong. He was used to calculating like this—like a chess player seeing several moves ahead.
Petya smiled faintly. "Compared to the police, I can shoot faster than them." He was quite confident. In fact, that was indeed true. He also had considerable courage and was agile enough to avoid Nate's attacks.
However, confidence is a double-edged sword. In the world Nate lived in, excessive overconfidence often ended with a bullet between the eyes. But for this young man, it seemed he indeed had reason to be confident. His movements were fast, accurate, and without hesitation.
It wasn't surprising that Nate had received a guest in the early morning who turned out to be a hitman targeting his life.
The next moment, the young man moved, peeking from behind the wall. As soon as his attention caught a glimpse of a shadow moving among the dim light near the pale white sofa, he immediately thought that Nate was hiding there. The gun was aimed again at the target, the trigger pressed once more.
The sound of gunfire returned, chilling and deafening, puncturing several objects that became the bullet's targets.
Two gaping holes in the white sofa. Fabric fibers burned, the smell of gunpowder filled the room. However, there was no blood. No fallen body. Petya frowned—something was wrong.
Because there was no resistance from the opposing side, Petya came out from behind the wall, heading toward the perforated sofa. The young man thought that his shots had finished Nate. He walked slowly to dampen the sound of his footsteps; in his right hand, the pistol was always at the ready.
His steps were light, like a cat approaching its prey. His breathing was steady, even though his heart was beating a little faster. In his head, he was already imagining the reward he would receive after successfully killing the Killer Rabbit. Reputation, money, and respect from the Donnano mafia boss.
The moment the gun was pointed again at the perforated sofa, the young man immediately flinched. "Shit!" A curse escaped him after finding no trace of Nate there. His alertness increased; Petya immediately focused his attention on all corners of the room.
The darkness in this apartment wasn't just because the lights were turned off. Nate had designed this place—every corner, every shadow, every possibility. And in a place he knew better than anyone, he was a ghost.
In an unexpected instant, someone hit the back of his neck hard from behind. Petya immediately fell tumbling; the gun in his grip was thrown away.
Ignoring his sore neck, Petya quickly got up, trying to grab his gun. However, his movement was preceded by Nate kicking the gun away even farther. At the end of that short duel, Nate aimed the muzzle of his gun precisely at the young man's head.
Petya's breath was ragged. On his temples, beads of cold sweat began to form. However, he still hadn't given up. In his heart, he was still calculating his chances—there was still one ace he hadn't played.
In the dark, Nate always dominated. However, who would have guessed that the young man still had a revolver stored in his pocket? The tension in the room grew more intense; the two hitmen from different generations were pointing their guns at each other from a distance of about two meters.
Two pairs of eyes met in the darkness. Nate's hazel eyes were calm, almost boring. Petya's jet-black eyes blazed with adrenaline. Both knew; in a situation like this, the one who pulled the trigger faster wasn't necessarily the one who would emerge as the winner.
"Who sent you?"
"You must already know," Petya answered casually, a sneer etched on his rather feminine face.
That answer didn't surprise Nate. He had suspected it from the start—canceling the contract with Vincent would not end without consequences. But sending a killer to his own home? That was a declaration of war. And Nate had never lost a war.
A moment of silence to think, Nate finally said, "Go home, Pyotr Volkov!"
Startled by Nate's command, Pyotr's mind was struck with momentary surprise. How did Nate know his full name?
That was Nate's trump card. Not speed, not strength—but information. In the world of hitmen, real names were the most valuable secret. Knowing someone's real name meant knowing their past, their family, their weaknesses. And Nate had done his homework before anyone sent this young man to him.
Not intending to wait for the young man's response, Nate spoke again, "I'm also going home." His words sounded more like a soft mutter.
That sentence was strange, even to Nate's own ears. Going home. Since when did he have a home? For years, all he had were hideouts, rental apartments, nameless hotels. Since Noel came—since that innocent soul inhabited his body—something had changed. There was a reason to return. There was a place that felt warm despite the winter.
A weak smile crept across Nate's lips, visible in Pyotr's eyes. For a moment, the young man thought he was seeing things. But it turned out not to be an illusion produced by the dim light in the dark room. Pyotr cursed silently, not expecting that the mission given to him by the Donnano mafia boss would fail simply by the command to go home. However, if he continued, Nate would not forgive. While still controlling the calm waves on his facial expression, Pyotr still couldn't believe what was happening.
In his eyes, Nate—the Killer Rabbit whose name was feared throughout the criminal world—had changed. Not because of his physique, not because of his fighting technique, but there was something in his gaze that was different. Something... softer. And that made Pyotr more afraid than if Nate had threatened to kill him.
Wasn't the Killer Rabbit a cold-blooded killer famously indiscriminate for years? But why did Nate just let him go?
While Pyotr was preoccupied with his thoughts, a colder tone of voice returned his wavering alertness. "Before I change my mind," Nate continued.
Pyotr was at a loss for words; with some hesitation, the young man began to step backward while continuing to aim his gun at Nate. Until he reached the doorstep, Pyotr quickly closed the door with his foot, then turned and ran away.
After Pyotr's departure, Nate scanned the surrounding situation through his attention. The room was a mess. Walls were punctured, the sofa was destroyed, glass cabinet pieces were scattered on the floor. The sound of Pyotr's speeding car alarm could still be faintly heard from outside the window. However, Nate didn't care about any of that. His mind had already shifted to something else. To someone he had left in another apartment, with Gregory.
The man remembered that he had forgotten something. He ran to the bedroom, rummaging through the contents of the closet, searching for something. Feeling that he hadn't found what he was looking for, his search moved to the bedroom. Cabinets were opened one by one, drawers were pulled out, their contents scattered on the floor—documents, money, backup weapons, none of it mattered. What he was looking for wasn't a valuable object, but something he couldn't leave behind, something that might be the only link between Nate and Noel.
A faint smile was etched when the object he was looking for was found—a small book with a dark brown leather cover—the journal Alexei had mentioned last night. Nate didn't know its contents; he had never read it. He knew this object was important. Important enough for Alexei to search for it. Important enough for people to target it. He immediately grabbed the backpack lying beside the bed. Without waiting long, the man immediately hurried away, leaving the apartment and taking the backpack with him.
The moon shone brightly that night. In a parking lot, Nate ran looking for his muscle car. After getting into the car, he started the engine. The V8 engine roared, the rear tires screeched against the slippery asphalt. On the dashboard, the digital clock showed 1:47 AM. Gregory and Noel had been left alone for too long. The man stepped on the gas, driving the four-wheeled vehicle at high speed. The slippery, snow-covered city streets did not hinder him from barreling down the road; he sped the muscle car above average speed toward a destination.
Inside the car, Nate's mind was in turmoil. Not about Pyotr, not about Vincent, but about Noel. An innocent soul who understood nothing about this world. A soul who might panic when left alone, who might open the door for the wrong person, who might do something stupid that would endanger himself. Nate pressed the gas pedal deeper.
Right at the intersection, a liftback car came from the opposite direction; the driver honked to tell Nate to pull over. However, the man ignored the warning; when the distance between the two cars was only three meters, Nate turned the muscle car's steering wheel to the left with a still-flat expression. Meanwhile, the startled driver slammed his steering wheel to the left, causing his car to crash into a pile of snow.
"FUCK YOU!"
The curse rang out loudly on the quiet street from the passing driver. But Nate ignored it.
In the rearview mirror, he saw the car stuck in a pile of snow. He should have stopped. He should have helped. But Nate was no longer Noel. And tonight, he didn't have time to be good.
After arriving at his destination, Nate haphazardly parked his car in front of a building. Cock and Ball—a hidden bar deep in Manhattan that served as Vincent Basciano's temporary headquarters. The blue neon light at the entrance was still dimly lit, even though it was past midnight. This wasn't a place people usually went to have fun. This was a snake's nest. As he was about to enter, a guard blocked his way.
"Show your identifica—"
Nate kicked the guard, sending him tumbling backward in one thrust, and continued walking inside without heeding the stares of the people there who saw his behavior, occasionally whispering something.
Inside, the atmosphere was different than usual. The remix music that usually boomed was silent. The main lights were turned off, only a few red and blue points of light remained. And at the end of the hallway, Nate heard a sound that made his blood boil—Vincent's voice, and in that room, Gregory was cornered.
Nate took out his gun as he entered a room inside the building and immediately aimed it at someone who was also aiming a gun at someone he was looking for.
"Drop your weapon!" Nate commanded coldly and firmly.
"Wow, our villain has finally arrived apparently," Vincent said, clapping his hands. He didn't look surprised at all—as if he had already expected that Pyotr would fail, that Nate would come here. And that meant... this was all a trap.
"Drop that gun now, or I'll blow your head off."
Vincent stared, giving a condescending look. "You think a cornered rabbit can—"
BANG
Blood spurted from Vincent's head. His body fell backward with a deafening sound—not from the gunshot, but from his head hitting the marble floor. However, before Nate could breathe a sigh of relief, shadows moved around him.
Nate and Gregory were now surrounded. Several armed men encircled them, forming a circle at a distance of about three meters.
Six men. Maybe more, because the darkness hid some corners of the room. Nate quickly counted; six enemies, each with a gun aimed at him and Gregory. A distance of three meters—too close to dodge all the shots at once, but far enough to allow a little reaction time.
Nate's expression cooled. Seeing the situation, those men had no intention of letting them live after this.
They were Vincent's men—or rather, Vincent's former men. Without their boss, no one was controlling this gang. And in chaos like this, the strongest would take over. Killing the Killer Rabbit would be a golden ticket for anyone who wanted to be the next boss.
In the underworld, anyone who dared to disturb their superiors or kill a mafia boss had to die that instant.
Getting rid of these men was a simple task, but what was more important was how to avoid dealing with state security forces. At the very least, to not be easily tracked.
Both Nate and Gregory still had calm expressions. Gregory stood to Nate's right, their backs almost touching—a position they had done thousands of times in similar situations. Without needing to speak, they already understood each other. Gregory would take the three on the left, Nate the three on the right. The countdown began in each of their heads.
In the past, they had faced situations like this many times. Nate shifted the aim of his gun in a different direction, causing Vincent's subordinates to step back slightly. They were also humans who had fear, who still had hopes of staying alive. They knew who Nate was; a Killer Rabbit who had taken many lives. The blood that had flowed through his hands was more than the water that flowed when he washed his hands to erase the traces of his murders. Especially now that Gregory was with him; they were great partners.
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