Alexander remained perfectly still, his heartbeat steady as he observed Vasiliev's movements through the thermal scope. The Butcher moved like a ghost, his steps light and deliberate, his posture relaxed yet predatory. There was no rush, no wasted energy. He was testing the waters, seeking out weaknesses in the structure before committing to an attack. Every movement he made was calculated, his head subtly turning to analyze the environment, his body perfectly balanced between control and explosiveness. His breath was measured, his muscles fluid yet tense, like a coiled spring waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Alexander knew he had mere seconds to act. The trap was set, but springing it too soon would tip his hand. He needed Vasiliev to commit first—to think he was in control. Only then could Alexander seize the advantage. He felt the sweat on his palms, the way his pulse thrummed with anticipation. This was not fear. This was the sensation of a hunter locking onto his prey.
Slowly, he reached for the remote detonator linked to the minor explosive charge he had set earlier. A distraction, nothing more. If he could steer Vasiliev into the kill zone, the tripwires and flashbangs would do the rest. His fingers hovered over the button, every muscle coiled as he prepared for the engagement. The wind howled through the skeletal frame of the building, metal creaking under its pressure. It was the only sound that separated the two assassins from complete silence.
He pressed the button.
A controlled explosion erupted from the far end of the construction site. The ground trembled slightly, a sharp crack echoing through the skeletal framework of steel and concrete. A cloud of dust and debris filled the air, masking movement and forcing a reaction. Vasiliev immediately dropped into a low crouch, his head snapping toward the source of the blast. His weapon was drawn in a fraction of a second, the barrel sweeping through the thickening dust, seeking out a threat. He did not flinch, did not hesitate. His movements were too calculated, too precise. For a fraction of a second, his attention was diverted.
Alexander moved.
Launching himself from the rooftop, he landed in a roll behind a stack of metal pipes, barely making a sound. His eyes never left Vasiliev, who was already adapting, his gun drawn, sweeping the area with calculated precision. The man wasn't rattled. He was assessing, adjusting. The way he moved was fluid, unbothered by the explosion, as though he had expected an ambush all along. The Butcher was not easily fooled, and that made him more dangerous than anyone Alexander had faced before.
Alexander tightened his grip on his knife, knowing that in close quarters, Vasiliev would be lethal. He had studied his opponent's history—hand-to-hand combat was one of the Butcher's specialties. A single mistake would cost him. He had seen footage of Vasiliev in action, breaking bones with surgical precision, dispatching enemies with swift brutality. There was no room for error. Every movement had to be calculated, every attack executed with precision.
From the shadows, Alexander whispered, just loud enough for Vasiliev to hear.
"You're slow."
The response was immediate. Vasiliev spun toward the voice, firing two precise shots into the darkness. The suppressed rounds cut through the night with a dull whisper, striking the steel support beams behind where Alexander had been moments ago. He was already moving, shifting positions, keeping Vasiliev guessing. Psychological warfare had begun. The bullets had come too close—Vasiliev was already predicting his movements, adapting as quickly as Alexander himself.
Another whisper. "Slower than I expected."
Vasiliev exhaled sharply, adjusting his stance. He didn't fire again. Instead, he listened. His fingers flexed around the grip of his firearm, his body poised for the inevitable clash. The Butcher had no need for unnecessary movement. He was not one to waste ammunition or energy on empty threats.
"You talk too much," he murmured, voice cold and measured. His accent was subtle but unmistakable, laced with years of hardened experience.
A tension filled the air, thick and suffocating. The dust from the explosion still lingered, creating an eerie fog around them. They were circling each other now, two predators locked in a deadly game, neither willing to make the first reckless move. The world around them faded—the city lights, the distant hum of traffic, even the weight of the sky above. There was only the fight. Every second stretched impossibly long, their instincts honed to a razor's edge.
Alexander smirked in the darkness.
"Then let's talk less."
With a burst of speed, he lunged from the shadows, the knife in his grip flashing under the dim construction lights. His foot barely brushed against the gravel before he exploded forward, his blade aimed at the artery in Vasiliev's neck. Vasiliev reacted instantly, twisting to the side, bringing up his forearm to deflect the strike. The force of the block sent a jolt through Alexander's wrist, but he adapted, spinning on his heel to launch a follow-up strike toward Vasiliev's ribs.
The Butcher dodged, his movements equally fluid, a brutal efficiency in his counters. He fired a shot mid-spin, aiming for Alexander's shoulder, but Alexander ducked, the bullet grazing past him. In an instant, the fight escalated, their weapons flashing in the dim light, steel against steel, gunfire cracking through the empty site.
The first strike had been made, but the real battle was just beginning.
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