Deep Night. Stella's Apartment.
The city slept, but Hunter Sun was wide awake.
He slipped out of bed, his movements fluid and silent. He didn't look back at the woman sleeping deeply beside him. Stella Bridger, the world's premier safecracker, was utterly spent.
Their reunion had been... intense.
Stella was a career woman, driven and professional. But her feelings for Hunter had unlocked a vulnerability she usually kept hidden behind layers of cynicism. When he returned, she had met him with a storm of passion fueled by weeks of insecurity.
Three days.
The first day, they had barely left the bedroom.
The second day, Stella had called in sick to recover.
Yesterday, she had rushed home early, pulling him back into bed before the sun even set.
And today... today had been a marathon.
Even with his 3x Human Stats, Hunter felt the phantom ache of exhaustion in his muscles. Stella, despite her yoga and cardio routine, had tried to wave the white flag hours ago. But Hunter had a mission tonight. He needed her out cold, deep in a sleep from which she wouldn't wake until dawn.
So he had pushed her past her limits.
Satisfied that she wouldn't stir, Hunter left the apartment. He didn't take a key. To a man with his skills, the high-security locks of her building were no more than suggestions.
He bypassed her Ford Mustang in the parking lot and walked several blocks to a secluded alley. Checking for surveillance, he summoned his motorcycle from his Inventory.
A quick plate swap. A change of jacket. A helmet.
Hunter revved the engine and melted into the night.
The Park. 3:00 AM.
Hunter pulled into a shadowed corner of a public park, miles away from Stella's place. He worked quickly under the moonlight.
He applied a vinyl wrap to the bike, changing its color. Then, using a compact mirror, he applied a layer of disguise makeup and donned a wig. Within minutes, the handsome Asian artist was gone, replaced by a nondescript rider who would be impossible to identify on CCTV.
He remounted and sped toward downtown Los Angeles.
Tonight, he was hunting.
"Why?" Hunter murmured into his helmet, the wind tearing at his voice. "Why couldn't you just let it go? Being alive... isn't that enough?"
His target: Charlie Croker and his crew.
Originally, Hunter hadn't planned to kill them. He actually respected Charlie. In the movie The Italian Job, Charlie was charismatic, a gentleman thief who valued his team. Under different circumstances, they might have shared a drink.
But they couldn't be friends. Not in this life.
Hunter had stolen the gold from Steve first—thirty million dollars worth of bullion. That was Strike One.
Then, Steve—paranoid and mistakenly believing Charlie was behind the theft—had kidnapped Stella to use as leverage. Charlie had taken the fall for Hunter's heist, getting beaten, shot, and nearly killed trying to rescue a woman Hunter had already saved. That was Strike Two.
Hunter felt a pang of guilt about that. He had let Charlie carry the cross for his sins. He had expected Charlie to eventually figure it out, maybe even try to steal the gold back. Hunter was prepared for a cat-and-mouse game. He had his Inventory; Charlie could never steal what didn't physically exist in this dimension.
He thought it would be a gentleman's game.
He was wrong.
Three Days Ago.
Hunter had found a note on the dashboard of his Mustang: Stay away from her.
He ignored it.
Yesterday Morning.
Another note: If you took our gold, you're a dead man.
Hunter frowned but kept moving.
This Morning.
Hunter had opened his car door to find a bouquet. Not flowers.
A bundle of dynamite sticks, wired together with black tape.
Sitting on top was a note: Hunter Sun. This isn't over.
It was a dummy bomb—no detonator—but the message was clear. They knew who he was. They knew about the gold. And now, they were threatening him with explosives.
The threat had escalated from professional rivalry to lethal intent.
Hunter's grip on the handlebars tightened.
Charlie Croker had made a fatal miscalculation. He assumed Hunter was just another thief, someone who could be intimidated or outsmarted. He didn't know he was dealing with a man who had already dismantled a DEA kingpin's empire and executed traitors without blinking.
"You crossed the line, Charlie," Hunter whispered, his eyes cold steel behind the visor.
In Hunter's world, a threat to his life wasn't a warning. It was a death sentence.
The gentleman thief was gone. The executioner had arrived.
Tonight, the Italian Job crew would learn the price of ambition.
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