NOTE TO READER: please read part one on my page before. Follow to keep up with the story :)

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I press myself flat against the wall, just outside the closest doorway. Shadows stretch across the room as two figures appear. One is tall, with an athletic build, and carries a stun baton gripped tightly in his hand. A jagged scar runs down the left side of his face, starting from his eyebrow and cutting all the way to his lip, giving him a hardened, intimidating look–_Scarface,_ I think, the name fitting perfectly. The other is shorter, with a wiry, almost frail frame, holding a small glowing tablet. He looks more like a computer nerd than a killer, with his thin build and slightly hunched posture. But I can’t afford to let that fool me—appearances can be deceiving, and misjudging him could get me killed. _Tablet Boy_ I decide, the nickname sticking in my mind as I size him up.

They’re dressed in generic black—no logos, no identifying marks.

_Two? That’s it? _My lips curl into a smirk as the thought takes hold. Whoever’s calling the shots clearly doesn’t think I’m much of a threat. They probably expected me to panic, to fumble, to run. But underestimating me is their first mistake.

My fingers flex at my sides, a pulse of adrenaline sharpening my focus. I’ll make sure it’s their last.

“She’s gone,” Tablet Boy mutters, pointing at the overturned chair.

Scarface grunts, moving closer. “Told you we shouldn't have used rope.”

“Doesn’t matter. She’s not going anywhere.”

Wrong again.

As soon as they reach the corner, I swing the chair leg with all my strength at the man with the baton. It connects with his knee, and he crumples to the floor, cursing. The scar on his face twists as he grimaces in pain, making his already menacing appearance even more unsettling. The nerdy one freezes, eyes wide.

“Don’t move,” I hiss, holding the improvised weapon in one hand and the knife in the other, pointed at each man. My eyes dart between them, calculating every possible move they might make. My voice is calm, measured—exactly the opposite of what they expected.

“You won’t make it out,” Tablet Boy stammers, fumbling with the tablet, his hand inching towards his shoulder. 

I lunge before he can react, slamming the chair leg against his head. The impact is brutal, and he stumbles back, the device clatters to the ground as he collapses. 

The first man, still on the floor clutching his injured knee, grits his teeth and makes an attempt to grab the fallen stun baton. I stomp on his hand, and he yells.

"Stay down," I warn, my voice low and sharp.

He pales, backing toward the door. "You don't understand. They'll come for you. You're just—“

"Highly trained," I finish for him, dropping the chair leg. With a swift kick, I send the baton skittering across the floor, out of his reach. 

As I kick the baton, he growls and lunges at me, but I sidestep, bringing the hilt of the knife down hard against the back of his head. He crumbles to the ground, motionless. 

I snatch up the fallen tablet. A quick glance shows schematics—- this room, the building, escape routes. Jackpot.

Before moving on, I crouch down and search the unconscious bodies.

The shorter one has a small firearm tucked into a shoulder holster—a Glock, not your typical military standard-issue, it’s sleek and utilitarian, built for precision over flair. My gaze lingers on it for a moment, and the pieces click into place. Mercenaries. They’re not here by accident, and they’re certainly not amateurs. I pull it free, checking the safety before tucking it into my waistband. Scarface has a handful of zip ties in his pocket—useful. I grab those too, securing both their wrists tightly behind their backs.

I shove the tablet into my pocket and gun into my waistband and limp toward the open door. "When they come, I'll be ready."

And with that, I disappear into the dark corridor beyond.