Beneath The Gun

Chapter Two

Noah always walked home the long way.

It was a habit he picked up when he was in freshman year a quiet route through an alley behind the bakery and down the side of a crumbling church. Less people. Less noise. Just the echo of his own footsteps and the soft hum of the world forgetting about him. He liked it that way. Peace was rare.

But tonight, something felt off.

He couldn’t name it exactly. Just a pressure in the air. Like he was being watched. He could feel it

Noah paused halfway down the alley. His eyes swept the shadows nothing but trash bins and flickering streetlights. Still, his chest was tight. He picked up his pace, crossing the cracked pavement until the hum of cars returned on the main road. Only then did his lungs start working again.

He didn’t know that thirty feet above, someone had been watching.

Viktor Mikhailov stood on the rooftop, the collar of his black coat flaring in the wind. His eyes tracked Noah’s every move. The boy moved like he didn’t belong in this filthy world too soft, too careful. That innocenceViktor didn’t know whether he wanted to protect it or destroy it.

He had tried to stay away.

After seeing Noah again at the university fundraiser, he told himself it was enough. Just one look. One reminder. But it hadn’t been. He had followed him home that night. And again the night after. And now tonight, he found himself memorizing the rhythm of Noah’s steps. The way his brows knit together when he was thinking. And the slight limp in his right leg probably from the accident he’d barely survived.

The one Viktor had ordered.

A bitter wind passed, snapping Viktor’s coat. Still, he didn’t move. The cold grounded him. It reminded him what he was: ruthless, untouchable, dead inside. Except around him.

Noah Anderson was a ghost from the past Viktor had buried. And ghosts, he’d learned, never stayed buried for long.

Noah’s apartment smelled like dust and lavender detergent. He kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door. He was too tired to cook, too tired to think, but the uneasy feeling still clung to him. He grabbed a leftover sandwich from the fridge, flicked the lamp on, and sat by the window.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: You shouldn’t walk home alone at night.

He froze.

The sandwich slipped from his hand and landed on the floor with a dull thud. His pulse spiked. He stared at the screen. No name. No photo. Just that one message. He looked out the window automatically, as if he’d see someone but the street was empty.

Heart hammering, he replied.

Noah: Who is this?

No answer.

He stood slowly, drew the curtains, and locked the door. His breathing was shallow now. This wasn’t a prank. It didn’t feel like one.

He did not know it yet, but that was Viktor’s first touch a warning, a promise.

Across the city, deep in a steel-and-glass skyscraper, Viktor entered his private penthouse suite. The walls were lined with black marble. Every inch of the place screamed control, power, silence.

He tossed his gloves on the counter, then walked to the security room. Six screens blinked to life. On one of them: Noah’s apartment, viewed through a traffic cam angled just right. Another, the university hallway. A private camera hidden in a fire alarm, trained on the sociology wing.

Viktor sat down, eyes locked on the screen.

Noah was pacing now, anxious. Good. Let him be a little afraid. Let him feel the weight of being known, really known.

There was something beautiful about watching someone who didn’t know he was being watched. It was the purest version of them. No masks. No performance. Just the truth. And Viktor valued truth above all things except maybe possession.

He could have him. He had the power, the money, the network. With a single command, he could bring Noah to his knees.

But Viktor was not ready. Not yet. The boy had to come willingly not because he was told to, but because he needed to.

And when he did God help him.

Noah didn’t sleep much that night.

He kept checking the windows, the locks. By morning, he looked like hell pale, with bruises under his eyes. He didn’t tell anyone. What could he say? That someone was watching him? That someone knew his every move? He sounded crazy even to himself.

At school, he tried to focus. Tried to listen to the lecture on behavioral theory. But his thoughts kept drifting. That message. That feeling. That name from the gala Viktor Mikhailov.

Something about the man had stayed in his head. The way he looked at him. Cold but curious. Like Noah was a puzzle he already knew how to solve.

He didn’t know who Viktor really was. Not yet. He didn’t know that behind the expensive suits and sharp jawline was a man with a body count in the triple digits. That the name Mikhailov made entire cartels tremble. He would know soon enough.

Later that day, Noah stopped by the coffee shop near campus. The place was nearly empty, quiet his kind of atmosphere. He ordered his usual and found a seat near the window.

When the drink came, he blinked.

There was a note under the cup.

“You like chamomile when you’re anxious. Still do.”

No signature. No clue how anyone would know that. Except

He looked around, panic swelling. A girl by the counter. Two guys at a far table. An old man reading a paper. No one looked suspicious but someone had left this. Someone knew that detail.

Something from his childhood.

He barely remembered it himself.

Who the hell is this?

Viktor watched from across the street, hidden behind tinted glass in the back of a black Maybach.

The note was a test.

He wanted to see how Noah would react not just physically, but emotionally. Would he crumble? Would he run? Or he would start digging?

Noah did none of those things.

He sat very still, staring at the note like it held the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet. His hands were trembling slightly. His mouth pressed into a line.

Viktor smiled.

He liked that. Resilience.

The boy was stronger than he looked.

That night, Noah called his friend Lexi the only person he trusted enough to confide in. She didn’t answer. He left a voicemail.

“Hey call me when you get this, okay? I just I think someone’s following me. I know how that sounds, but it’s like they know things. Private things. Things they shouldn’t. Please just call me.”

He hung up and stared at the wall.

A few minutes later, the power flickered once, twice then stabilized.

He didn’t notice that across the street, a van had been parked for hours. Windows tinted. No logo.

Inside sat a man with an earpiece and a photo of Noah clipped to the dashboard. His orders were simple: watch and wait.

Far above, in his penthouse, Viktor stood shirtless by the glass window, a drink in his hand.

Behind him, his most trusted man, Sergei, stepped in.

“You’ve been reckless,” Sergei said. “The cameras. The notes. You’re playing with fire.”

“I own the fire,” Viktor murmured.

“This boy what is he to you?”

Viktor didn’t turn.

He stared at the city the cold, ruthless empire he built from ash and blood.

“He’s the only thing I’ve ever regretted,” Viktor said. “And the only thing I still want.”

Sergei didn’t reply.

What could he say? He’d seen Viktor slit a man’s throat for speaking out of turn. Burn an entire shipment for disobedience. But this this was different.

This was obsession.

And obsession, in Viktor’s hands, was dangerous.

That night, Noah dreamed of fire.

He saw shadows, blood, and the face of a man he couldn’t place. Cold blue eyes. A gun. A whispered name: Viktor.

He woke with sweat on his neck and a scream stuck in his throat.

Something was coming.

He didn’t know what but it was close. Closer than ever.

And watching.