The Tragedy Script

Max walked out of the hotel, ignoring the receptionist's weird look. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, but Max looked relieved.

Life, he decided, was actually pretty simple. It was people who made it complicated. If you stopped overthinking people, life got easier. If you want something, fight for it. If you get it, cherish it. And if you lose it... well, just forget it.

Shaking his head, Max popped open his umbrella and stepped into the downpour.

At 10:15 PM, Max trudged back to his studio apartment, looking like a drowned rat. He shoved his key in the lock, grumbling about the weather.

He didn't notice the eyes watching him from the shadows.

Once Max was inside and the door clicked shut, a dark figure detached itself from the gloom of the stairwell.

The man moved with the silence of a ghost. Hood up, mask on, hands buried in his pockets. He crept toward Apartment 3B and pressed his ear against the wood.

From inside came the faint whoosh of a shower running.

The assassin's eyes narrowed. He glanced at the neighboring door, Apartment 3A. He pulled two slender lockpicks from his pocket and slid them into the neighbor's lock.

A few seconds later—click. The mechanism gave way.

The man's eyes crinkled in a sinister smile. He reached for the handle, ready to slip inside and wait.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

The sound came from both sides at once.

The assassin froze as the doors to Apartment 3A and Apartment 3B swung open simultaneously.

Suddenly, the hallway was flooded with light from both apartments. The assassin stood there, caught in the crossfire of two 60-watt bulbs, visible down to the lint on his hoodie. He went rigid, like someone had hit him with a Medusa-grade petrification spell.

"Huh?"

A stunningly pretty woman stepped out of Apartment 3A. She blinked at the masked figure, her expression shifting from surprise to deep suspicion. It was the middle of the night, and here was a guy dressed like he was about to rob a bank. Not exactly comforting.

From Apartment 3B, Max stepped out. He looked just as confused. He'd changed into a dry jacket and was holding a garbage bag, looking for all the world like a guy just trying to do his chores.

Trapped between a confused beauty and a guy with trash, York—the assassin—felt a thousand curses stampeding through his brain. He wanted to scream.

Are you kidding me? Was this some cosmic joke? Had he forgotten to check his horoscope? How does a simple hit job turn into a neighborhood block party?

The storm had emptied the streets. The building was supposed to be dead quiet.

But right at the critical moment, two curveballs?

Apartment 3A was supposed to be vacant. Since when did a supermodel live there? And 3B? Max was supposed to be in the shower. Who hops out of the shower to take out the trash that fast?

"You looking for Ms. Lane?" Max asked, seemingly unbothered by the guy's ninja cosplay. He turned to lock his door. "She's usually not around at night."

"Oh. Is that so?" York recovered fast. The plan was toast. Too many witnesses. Time for a strategic retreat. "I'll... uh... come back tomorrow. Cough, cough!"

York covered his mouth, hacking loudly to justify the mask.

"Man, that Ms. Lane is busy," Max muttered to himself. He hoisted the garbage bag and walked toward York, aiming to squeeze past him to get to the trash chute.

York dipped his head, playing the sick visitor. But just as they were about a yard apart—right as they were about to pass—York saw it out of the corner of his eye.

Max's shoulder dipped.

Not good, York's instincts screamed.

A split second later, a black blur swung toward his head.

York threw his hands up instinctively. BANG!

"Argh!" York shrieked as the bag connected. His left hand exploded with pain.

THUD.

The trash bag hit the floor with a heavy, sickening thud—the kind of sound that told you this wasn't just leftover takeout. Inside the decoy trash bag was a canvas sack, and inside that sack was a ten-pound dumbbell.

York didn't even have time to process the pain before a blur of motion rushed him. Max was charging in, armed with a metal canister.

Psst!

A cloud of chemical gas erupted, aiming straight for York's face.

York's reflexes were fast. He threw up a hand and squeezed his eyes shut, but you can't block a cloud. Even with his face mask, the gas found its way in. It felt like liquid fire. York let out a strangled scream as his skin started to burn.

It takes a while to describe, but in reality, it all went down in a nanosecond. Max's one-two combo—the dumbbell toss and the pepper spray—had caught the pro completely off guard.

But York was a veteran. Fighting through the agony, he lunged forward, his hand swiping at his waist. In a flash, a glistening knife appeared in his grip. He ignored Max's clumsy attempt to dodge and thrust the blade straight toward Max's gut.

York knew anatomy. He knew exactly where the nerve clusters were. A stab there would drop a normal person instantly, paralyzed by pain even if it didn't kill them.

And Max? Max was definitely a normal person. He didn't stand a chance.

The knife struck home at a vicious angle.

But York's sadistic grin froze.

The resistance was wrong. It didn't feel like flesh.

Before York's brain could catch up, a dark shadow loomed in his peripheral vision.

BAM!

York felt like his skull had just introduced itself to a sledgehammer. His head snapped to the side, and he careened into the hallway railing.

"Yo! You alive?"

Vivian retracted her leg. She seemed just as shocked as everyone else that a fight had broken out, but her instincts had kicked in just in time. She booted York away and moved to check on Max.

"I'm fine!" Max yelled, backing away. "Watch out! He's not done yet!"

Vivian spun around. Sure enough, York shook the cobwebs out of his head and stood up. He looked like a wreck—eyes bloodshot and weeping from the pepper spray, left arm dangling uselessly from the dumbbell impact.

Inside, York was seething.

His perfect plan? Ruined. And it wasn't just bad luck. These kids were waiting for him. The decoy bag, the pepper spray, the body armor under Max's clothes—it was a trap designed specifically for him.

But it didn't make sense. How had he been exposed? He had focused all his attention on Max, the only male threat.

He hadn't counted on the random background girl.

Vivian looked like a harmless NPC, but that kick? If York hadn't instinctively rolled with the hit, and if his hood hadn't cushioned the blow, he'd be unconscious right now. Normal girls scream and run when they see a knife. They don't launch tactical airstrikes.

"Hey!" Vivian rattled off questions like a machine gun. "Who is this guy? Was he trying to pick the lock? Is this the 'Panty Raider' you talked about? How did you know he'd be here? And wait—he totally stabbed you! How are you not bleeding?"

Max looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "Uh, maybe we can knock out the bad guy before the Q&A session?"

Max was trying to sound cool, but his legs were trembling so hard they were practically vibrating. His back was drenched in cold sweat. When he saw that knife coming, he was 100% sure he was dead meat.

Most people freeze when they're about to die. Max was no exception.

York wiped his streaming eyes, glaring at the two people  who were casually chatting in the middle of a death match.

"I don't know who you are," York snarled, "but now, I'm mad."

Vivian smirked. "Ooh, scary. Hey, Mr. Super-Thief, maybe wipe the snot off your face before you try to sound tough? Serious lack of professionalism there."

She still thought he was just some pervert stealing underwear.

York's expression darkened. It's not a lack of professionalism! It's the pepper spray, you idiot!

Gritting his teeth, he flipped his grip on the knife, crouching low like a springing tiger. In a heartbeat, he launched himself at Vivian.

In his mind, the girl was the real threat. Max was just a civilian in armor. Vivian had to go first.

"Look out!" Max tried to intervene, but he was too slow.

WHAM!

It happened in a blur. York went flying backward, slamming into the railing for the second time. The knife clattered across the floor. York hit the deck, curled up into the fetal position, clutching his stomach and wheezing.

"Yikes." Max winced in sympathy.

He knew Vivian was tough, but this tough?

Max had mentally prepared himself for an epic, three-hundred-round kung fu battle. Instead, the bad guy got folded like laundry in one move.

Wait, Max thought. Wasn't this guy supposed to be an ex-Captain or something? Did the movie director run out of budget for the fight scene?

What Max didn't know was that Vivian's style—the Twelve-Step Kick—wasn't for showing off. It was built for explosive power. Real fights aren't dance routines; they're over in a split second. This was a lethal combat art, plain and simple.

Of course, it helped that York was already half-blind and nursing a fractured arm from Max's earlier ambush.

But now wasn't the time to stand around being impressed.

Max saw the guy stiffen up from the previous hit and figured it was game over. He whipped out what looked like a flashlight to deliver the finishing blow, but the universe apparently had a sick sense of humor and decided to spin the wheel of misfortune one more time.

York, who had been writhing on the ground a second ago, suddenly sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. His hand dove into his jacket.

Max's stomach dropped.

York pulled out a gun. A real, dark, very lethal-looking gun, pointed straight at Vivian.

Max had mentally prepared himself for a lot of things tonight, but staring down the barrel of a pistol wasn't on the list. His soul tried to exit his body, but instinct took the wheel. He gritted his teeth, ignored the screaming in his brain, and dove toward Vivian, who was standing there frozen like a deer in headlights.

BANG!

The gunshot tore through the quiet, rainy night.