thirty seconds of ash
1283 Words
Sable ran through the gate, her heart pounding like a war drum. Fire licked the night, debris scattered everywhere, the air thick with smoke. She pushed through it, coughing, eyes stinging.
"No, no... please," she whispered, stumbling over a broken tile, her boots crunching glass. Her chest tightened.
She wasn't ready to accept it. Couldn't let the thought settle.
"Synn…" her voice cracked, barely holding back the panic.
The mansion was crumbling, flames dancing across the walls like death had thrown a party. But still, she kept moving.
Hoping.
Just hoping.
Before the explosion, Synn had already slipped through the gate.
The compound was quiet. Too quiet.
She moved with caution, her boots soft on the stone path as she passed the marble fountain. Its waters still flowed, untouched by chaos, but the air… something about it felt wrong. Still.
No guards at the post.
No movement.
She slowed, eyes scanning. This wasn't right.
Hand on her revolver, she drew it smoothly and held it close. Her gaze landed on the SUV near the far end of the lot. A man in a suit was slumped against it, awkwardly, like gravity forgot to be gentle.
Synn crouched low and crept closer.
Chest wound. Clean shot. Dead.
Her jaw tightened.
Then she saw them — more bodies. Lying in a trail like breadcrumbs soaked in blood. Maybe five. Maybe more. All Bishop's men. All down.
That's when the switch flipped.
This wasn't a quiet night op. This was a setup.
She rose, revolver raised, steps lighter now, tighter.
She pushed the front door open slowly, barrel first. No creak — she'd already clocked that in recon. She stepped in.
Death greeted her.
Some had been gunned down on the staircase. Others sprawled across the marble floor of the massive sitting room, limbs twisted, eyes open.
She scanned the pattern. No wild shootout — it was precise, deliberate. Clean shots. No struggle.
Another assassin had already been here.
And they were fast.
Synn moved up the stairs, heart steady but pace sharp. She avoided the corpses, stepping over them like they were part of the floor now.
Eyes forward.
Something was waiting at the top.
Synn moved quietly down the corridor, heart ticking like a metronome in the silence. Door after door — all shut. She opened each one, sweeping through bedrooms, lounges, storage rooms. Empty.
Still no sign of Bishop.
Then, at the far end of the hall, a door stood slightly ajar — different from the rest. A study, maybe. Isolated.
She pushed it open.
There he was.
A man in black, crouched near the far wall, fiddling with something — wires, maybe. Bishop was tied to a chair, barely conscious. His mouth gagged. Eyes wide with panic.
The man jerked up at the sound of the door.
He didn't hesitate.
Two quick shots rang out.
Synn dropped instantly, diving behind the heavy desk. Wood splintered just above her shoulder as bullets slammed into the wall behind her.
The bastard was fast — but she was faster.
He wasn't expecting company. Thought he'd cleared the place. His edge just got dull.
And now?
Synn was about to sharpen hers.
The masked man crept closer to the desk, step by step, his breath shallow beneath the black fabric. He raised his gun, finger already brushing the trigger. He just needed her to lift her head—just an inch—and it'd be over.
No mistakes.
No noise.
No mercy.
But right as he got in range, something hissed through the air.
Whip-crack!
A blade-tipped lash snapped out from beneath the table—slicing across his face. Steel kissed flesh. Blood splattered. He staggered back with a guttural grunt, the sting burning deep. The gun clattered from his hand.
Before he could even process the pain, a kick slammed into his gut. He crashed to the floor hard, gasping. Bishop flinched from where he sat tied up, watching with wild, terrified eyes.
The assassin rolled over and sprang back to his feet, fury rising like fire in his veins. He wasn't playing anymore.
No hesitation.
He pulled a dagger from his side pocket and flipped it in his grip, settling into a low stance. No more underestimating. Whoever this woman was—she was trained. Dangerous. And he was now in a fight he hadn't signed up for.
This was no longer a hit.
It was survival.
Just then, he lunged—fast, a blur of rage and steel. The blade came at her like a flash, but Synn pivoted hard to the right, dodging the strike by inches. In the same breath, she spun her whip. Crack! The bladed tip tore across his back, slicing through fabric and flesh. He grunted, pain flaring hot, but he didn't slow.
Instead, he drew a second dagger and hurled it with precision.
Synn's eyes widened—too close.
But instinct kicked in. She flicked her wrist, and the whip coiled mid-air, deflecting the blade just before it reached her.
She exhaled sharply.
Yeah… he was good.
But Synn had danced with death before—and she never missed a step.
She could handle him.
He followed up with a swift kick—his boot clicking as a hidden blade snapped out at the tip. The strike came fast, aiming straight for her face.
Synn dodged—barely.
She felt the blade kiss the air just above her eyes.
But he wasn't done.
With brutal precision, he spun, bringing his other leg around. The boot's blade sliced across her abdomen, carving a sharp line through her side.
She grunted, staggered by the pain—but not broken.
In one swift move, she retaliated. Her leg shot up in a brutal arc, connecting with his throat.
Crack.
He gasped, stumbling back, the air ripped from his lungs as he crashed to the floor.
He knew he stood no chance—not anymore. The whip, the wounds, her precision. It was checkmate. But he wasn't here to win. Just to execute the plan.
A twisted smile curled beneath his mask—chilling in its calm, smug in its finality. His fingers pressed a device tucked in his palm.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound echoed through the room like a countdown to hell.
Then—crash!
Glass shattered as he dove through the window, disappearing into the night like smoke on wind.
Synn's eyes snapped to the wall where he'd been moments ago.
That's when she saw it.
Red numbers blinking.
A bomb.
00:45.
Counting down.
"Shit." she hissed under her breath.
She turned to bolt—until a muffled, desperate noise stopped her cold.
Bishop.
Still tied to the chair. Gagged. Panicking.
Her eyes darted back to the timer.
00:33.
Without hesitation, she sprinted over, hands working fast, adrenaline charging her fingers as she tore at the bindings.
00:15.
The ropes gave way. Bishop gasped, breath ragged.
"Thank you," he wheezed.
"Shut up," Synn snapped, hauling him to his feet. "We're not out yet."
00:04.
They ran.
00:03.
The hallway blurred past them.
00:02.
00:01.
BOOM.
A monstrous explosion tore through the mansion, fire chasing them like a hungry beast. The force lifted them off the ground—
airborne, weightless, helpless.
They slammed into the earth with a brutal crash, the shockwave curling behind them like a dragon's roar.
Then—
Darkness.
A muffled voice echoed through the haze.
Buried beneath scorched rubble and twisted metal, Synn stirred.
"Synn! … Synn!"
Sable's voice cracked through the smoke, desperate, searching.
She was digging through debris, her hands trembling, eyes wide with panic.
Ash rained like snow, the air thick with heat and dust.
"Synn, please…"
A faint groan answered back.
- Writer
