Author's Note:
This is the silence after the storm.
No screaming. No alarms. Just bodies cooling on marble and precision wrapping itself back into stillness. This chapter closes the rooftop arc—and reminds us that Nivrit Vashirayan doesn't fight with rage. He fights with surgical precision.
You've seen what he can do. Now… see what happens next.
📍**[+00:00:00 – Mission Concluded]**
Location: Sector Seven Rooftop & Evacuation Path
Status: CODE: SANDALWOOD – RESOLUTION PHASE
⏱️ 00:00
High above, on the ridge—two figures broke from prone sniper positions.
The Vashirayan intercept team moved in perfect sync.
One agent flanked left, triggering a sonic scatter pulse.
The other moved behind, deploying a micro-drone net laced with tranquilizer needles.
One sniper panicked.
Fired blind.
Shot caught mid-recoil. Chest collapsed inward.
Dead before he fell.
The second dropped his weapon. Tried to run.
Too late.
Two needles. One nerve cluster.
He seized.
Slumped.
Captured.
⏱️ [Simultaneously – Rooftop Entry]
The service stairwell door exploded inward.
Four operators in matte black poured out—boots silent, rifles steady.
But they didn't fire.
They froze.
Because they saw him.
Nivrit Vashirayan.
Standing at the far end of the rooftop.
Blood that wasn't his drying on his hands.
Glass tangled in his hair.
One tear in his shirt.
No weapon in hand—he hadn't needed one.
The bodies around him told the story.
Some slumped against railings.
Others twisted, folded, limbs where they shouldn't be.
Blood soaking into velvet tablecloths, shattered wine towers, and the last flickers of firelight.
Niv stood still.
Head lowered.
Breathing slow.
Like death hadn't left yet.
The strike team didn't ask for a sitrep.
They waited.
Then—only then—he raised his hand.
Just two fingers. Minimal motion. Absolute command.
From behind the collapsed lounge bar:
Sera stood.
Dress stained. Hair loose. Jaw tight.
But her eyes were only on him.
Jaime stood next.
Gun lowered. Breathing measured.
His stance held—until Niv lowered his fingers again.
Not a word spoken.
The Vashirayan strike leader stepped forward, vocoder voice calm:
"One sniper captured. One dead. No survivors here."
Niv scanned the rooftop.
All of it.
The opulence.
The rot.
The dead.
He didn't blink.
"Good," he said softly. "Clean it."
Then turned.
Walked past them.
Without sound. Without looking back.
The team moved to clear perimeter.
The rooftop stank of wine, steel, and blood.
Flashlights flicked. HUDs pinged.
All clear.
One operative approached, quiet.
"Captured sniper is in transit. Routed to the vault at 4C."
Niv looked at him once.
Voice even:
"Don't touch him. Don't speak to him. Don't interrogate."
A pause.
"Sir?"
"Just keep him there. I'll tell you what to do."
Orders. Final. Simple.
Click. Confirmation sent.
Niv exhaled.
His hands hung loose.
Fingers still curled, blood trailing the tips.
Then he turned. Eyes on Jaime.
The older man was upright—but bleeding. His ribs wet.
Niv tapped his watch. Looked to the strike lead.
"Take us to Sera's house. Quiet route."
"Understood. Medic team's waiting."
The formation closed.
Two ahead. Two behind.
Three figures moved through a rooftop soaked in violence:
An heir with blood on his hands.
A cartel princess with no fear left.
And an ex-SAS operative turned cartel bodyguard too proud to collapse.
No alarms.
No police.
No witnesses.
Only silence.
And cameras that never saw a thing.
When Sera stepped beside him—
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
Because everything that needed saying
had already bled into the floor.