The golden rays of the morning sun pierced through the curtains, striking his eyelids and making them twitch. With a groggy grunt, Dave turned to the side, away from the blinding light, desperate to cling to the last threads of sleep. But the muffled chaos from downstairs shattered the silence, dragging him from his half-dreams.
He sighed, slouched over, and threw his legs off the bed. A wide yawn escaped his lips as he blinked open his eyes—only to be greeted by the black screen of his computer, the very one that had kept him up until 3 a.m. again. That time, once considered unholy, had somehow become the new normal for people his age. No one questioned it anymore.
For Dave, last night's rabbit hole had been a deep dive into the mechanics of World War rifles—a full-blown comparison between the legendary Mosin-Nagant and the infamous Kar98. Some his age stayed up binge-watching shows or anime. Others were obsessed with football, or golf, or trying out new makeup trends, or just gossiping the night away. For you, maybe it was reading this. Whatever the obsession, the outcome was the same: sleep came late—if it came at all.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp call of his mother's voice echoing through the house. "Dave!"
He shook off the remaining drowsiness, slipped on his house slippers, and made his way downstairs. The moment he reached the landing, the gleam from his father's shiny bald head caught the morning light and hit his eyes like a laser. He didn't laugh—though the temptation was real. At 54, his father had a strong build and once had the same thick, black, curly hair as Dave. But time, relentless as ever, had left its mark. One day, Dave knew, his own hair would face the same fate—if any of it was still around by then.
As he stepped into the kitchen, his mother greeted him with a warm hug. He caught the familiar scent of her body wash and perfume—a mix of lavender and vanilla. Her black hair, too, was starting to give way to age, with white strands sneaking their way in, but her energy remained youthful, vibrant. Her outfit today made her look ten years younger, a striking contrast to the years she carried. She was six years younger than Dad and still moved with a spring in her step.
She gave Dave her usual advice: "Close the doors, eat well, and for heaven's sake, don't stay glued to that damn screen. That shiny devil's already stealing your eyesight as payment."
Dave just nodded, half-smiling.
Then came the chatterbox—his little sister. She burst in from outside but, strangely, wasn't yelling today. At 12, she was seven years younger than Dave but twice as loud—usually. She mouthed exaggeratedly at him, "I… AM… GOING… WHILST—" before she could finish, their mother called her from the family's pride and financial burden: the Jeep Wrangler.
No one really questioned why his father had insisted on buying a four-wheel-drive beast, especially in a city like Beijing. His reasons were vague, always dodging logic. But no one pressed him on it either. After all, the unspoken rule was clear: no money, no opinion.
The car revved out of the driveway. His sister waved at him through the window—teasing him was her hobby, but there was real affection in her smile. Maybe she would miss him after all. Or maybe he just hoped she would. Either way, the Jeep disappeared into the horizon, beginning their long journey from Beijing to Xi'an, where their extended family lived.
Dave stood at the doorway, watching them go, until his stomach grumbled its protest. That brought him back to the present.
He shuffled into the kitchen, ready to fix himself something quick—but stopped short. Waiting for him on the counter was a plate with two slices of perfectly toasted bread, jam neatly on the side, a fluffy omelet, and a steaming cup of tea. A silent message from his mother, full of care.
He smiled to himself, picked up the plate and the mug, and headed back to his room. There, he devoured the meal with quiet gratitude.
Then he lay back, full and content, unaware of the cruel hand that fate was already stretching toward him, its face masked by a calm, unreadable poker face.
An hour later, Dave was still glued to his screen—exactly what his mother warned him not to do. Upstairs in his dim room, the world outside seemed irrelevant… until the sharp, shrill ring of the family landline echoed from downstairs.
Mounted beside the TV, that old phone rarely rang. Dave hated going downstairs—it felt like a chore, a descent into stillness. But he was alone in the house. Groaning, he dragged himself from his chair.
The further down the steps he went, the heavier his chest became. An eerie weight pressed on his shoulders, like the world itself was bracing to crush him. Halfway down, he paused. His legs didn't want to move. Something inside him screamed: Don't go down.
Why?
He didn't know.
Still, the ringing persisted. Reluctantly, he pushed forward, his steps now shaky. When he finally reached the phone, it felt like an eternity had passed.
With trembling fingers, he picked up.
"…Hello?" he whispered.
A woman's voice responded. "Hello. Is this the chief prosecutor's residence?"
"Yes," Dave replied, confused.
A pause.
Then came the bombshell.
"I'm… I'm so sorry. Your family… they've been in an accident. None of them made it. We need you to come to the hospital."
The phone slipped from his hand. Then his body did too.
He didn't scream. He couldn't. No sound came. Only tears—quiet, endless tears.
The voice on the other end kept speaking. "Hello? Are you there?"
"I'm here…" Dave murmured, barely aware of his own words. His mind had fled, drowned in a tidal wave of loss and disbelief.
Then the line went dead.
Click.
Darkness. The power cut off.
The front door creaked open.
Sunlight poured in—but it didn't brighten the room. It was blocked by two massive silhouettes. Broad. Muscular. Dangerous.
Dave heard them enter. But he didn't flinch. He didn't care. He had nothing left to lose.
They approached him. One was bald, with a smooth face that reflected the sun like marble. The other had a thick beard and veiny hands like steel cables.
The bald one leaned down. "Why does the boss want this one terminated?" he muttered. "He's no threat."
Those words—terminated—struck Dave's ears like a hammer to glass.
Suddenly, dots connected.
His family. Murdered.
These men. Sent here.
Him. The next target.
They didn't know him. Dave wasn't just smart—he was lethal. Not your average genius. He was the kind of prodigy whispered about in medical labs and weapon history forums. A hidden master of anatomy and an obsessive collector of WWII weaponry.
And he had one thing no assassin could predict—instinct.
When he'd fallen, a wooden chopstick had tumbled beside him. One half near his hand, the other across the floor.
As Baldy leaned in again, a flash of movement shot upward. Dave drove the sharpened tip of the chopstick right under the man's jaw—beneath the jugular. A clean pierce.
Baldy staggered back, choking on his own blood.
By the time Beardy reached for his silenced Colt, the sun glinted off its golden surface—but the ptew came fast. Too fast.
The bullet hit Dave's neck. A perfect shot.
He collapsed again, blood now pooling beneath him.
Beardy clicked his tongue. "Tch. And the boss wanted to torture the kid. Now I'll be the one he vents on…"
But what he didn't expect… was the smile.
Dave was smiling.
Even in death, he looked… at peace.
He had wanted revenge—but fate had offered him something else.
Reunion.
He'd join his family, not in vengeance—but in eternity." They are taking everything but death will give me everything i want or I foolishly thought."
That thought made him smile wider.
As the light left his eyes, Dave's final breath whispered through the room like a secret…
And then, silence.