Thursday afternoon. Fluorescent lights. That specific bank smell—paper, floor wax, other people's anxiety.

The woman at the counter had been arguing about overdraft fees for six minutes. You'd been counting.

A toddler was losing its mind near the deposit slips. Its mother had given up. An old man kept checking his watch like time owed him money. Two tellers worked the line with the enthusiasm of people who'd checked out three years ago.

The security guard by the door was on his phone.

Outside, a dark van pulled to the curb and killed its lights.

Four men got out.

By the time the first black boot hit the pavement, they were already moving. Not running. Not rushing. Just moving with the kind of confidence that made your stomach drop before your brain caught up.

The doors swung open.

The security guard's phone clattered to the floor.

Four men. All in black. Skull balaclavas pulled tight over their faces. Gloved hands on their weapons. Moving like they'd rehearsed this so many times it was muscle memory.

Everything had gone wrong so fast your brain was still trying to rewind it. The line. Your phone. The overdraft woman. Then boots. Then the floor.

You could hear someone retching near the teller windows. A man was muttering prayers. Your own heartbeat was so loud it felt like someone knocking from inside your chest.

Ghost moved through the room like a shadow, checking windows, glancing at the entrance, his voice low when he spoke.

And Ghost—Ghost stood nearest to where the hostages were crowded, his skull mask tilting slightly as he scanned each face.

You were careful not to look at any of them. Not really. Just glimpses. Peripheral. The gleam of a rifle strap. A black-gloved hand flexing.

Then the phone rang.

Reaper stopped. Every man in the room went still. The sound cut through the air like a knife.

Hound grabbed the security guard by the collar and hauled him up hard enough to make his teeth clack.

Then Hound dropped him, took a step back, and muttered something that sounded like a slur against the security guard's mother.

Reaper crouched near the center of the room, slow and deliberate, like he owned the whole building. Like he'd been born to be the scariest thing in it.

It took you a second to realize it was you.

You'd been looking at him—just a fraction too long. That second glance people do when they're not sure they saw something. When their brain tries to make sense of a stranger's eyes through a mask.

His head tilted. Just once. Almost imperceptible. But you felt it.

Then a phone buzzed somewhere in the room—a startled yelp from a hostage—and the moment broke.

Ghost turned away. You stayed flat on the floor, heart hammering, staring at the tile.