Sembilan’s boots echoed down the narrow hallway. The air smelled like rust and old smoke. In Her hand, a pack of cigarettes—still unopened.

Gidget leaned against the wall, a small smile on his face.

“We got this place,” he said. “You trust me, right?”

She didn’t answer. She just opened the cigarette pack slowly.

They’d been through a lot—running, bleeding, hiding. But lately, Gidget seemed... too calm.Too clean.

Last week, someone leaked their location.Two people vanished.

Gidget said it was a coincidence.

Last night, someone broke into their safehouse. Gidget said he was asleep.

She struck a match. Watched the flame. Then let it die. Didn’t light the cigarette. Gidget’s voice cut through the silence.“Who do you trust, Sembilan? Me... or your own shadow?”

She didn’t speak. But her eyes said enough. Something was broken.

Rain tapped the tin roof like a warning that came too late.

Sembilan climbed the stairs slowly. Every step echoed—each creak louder than the last, like the house itself remembered what was about to happen.

At the end of the hall, the door stood open. Gidget was inside. Back to the window, black jacket cutting his shape against the city lights.

No words. No welcome. Just the silence of someone who had waited too long with the truth.

A suitcase sat near his feet—files, photos, proof. Betrayal never needed a microphone.

Sembilan stepped in. Quiet. Cold.

Their eyes met. For a second, it almost felt like the past.

But lies wear familiar faces.

She raised the gun. Her hand trembled—once. Then, a single shot.

Gidget felli Silence returned. Except for the rain.

Sembilan stood still. Breathing heavy. Eyes dry.

She whispered, to no one: "Trust shot first. I just shot back.”

Limbad didn’t speak. He never did. He just stood at the door, silent as always, and handed Domenico a folded note. Blood on the edge. Gidget’s handwriting. Domenico read it once. Lies. Blame. Panic in ink.

“Kid says Sembilan turned on him.”

He scoffed. “That girl couldn’t shoot straight with both hands and a prayer.”

He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the ashtray.

“Set a meeting. Just me and him.”

Later, at the park. Early fog. Wet grass. Quiet. Gidget showed up late, limping, pale.

“You wanted to see me, Boss?” he asked.

Domenico didn’t rise from the bench. He lit a cigarette, took one long drag.

“You got shot,” he said. “Then you ran to me with a story full of holes.”

Gidget swallowed. “Sembilan—she—”

“If she wanted you dead, you’d already be buried.”

Domenico stood, slow and quiet. No anger, just routine. “You knew the rules, Git.”

Three shots. No hesitation.

Chest. Chest. Head.

Gidget dropped, lifeless in the mist.

Domenico exhaled smoke over the body “You played the wrong angle.”

And just like that, he left. No blood on his coat. No weight on his conscience.

Sembilan hadn’t slept in three days. Cigarette smoke moved slowly in the cold air. At the end of the long wooden table, she sat quietly. Her forehead rested on her fingers, like she was trying to stop the world from falling apart just by thinking hard.

The big brown envelope in front of her had everything: Gidget’s client names, unpaid invoices, and one photo—proof that he had been working both sides.

Sembilan took a slow, deep breath. Gidget was dead. And she didn’t pull the trigger.

“He was my guy. My mistake.”

Domenico didn’t say a word when he shot Gidget. Just one nod to Sembilan, then a quiet gunshot in the empty warehouse. Now, only the mess was left: a broken reputation, lost business deals, and doubtful looks from their partners. If Sembilan couldn’t fix this, she was nothing.

She stood up. Her black coat moved as she picked up a small suitcase from the floor.

“I have to clean this up. From Vegas to Philly.”

It had been a month since the Gidget situation was handled.

Sembilan never talked about it. But she knew—when one mess ends, another usually follows.

That night in Chichago, three men cornered her in a narrow alley.

“Tyler’s interested in your business,” one of them said.

“We just wanna talk.”

One of them reached for the strap of her bag.

Two shots. One straight to the chest—he dropped instantly.

The second took a bullet to the thigh—screaming on the ground.

The third man froze. Then run away into the night.

She let him go.Sembilan walked up to the injured one.

"I don’t like being touched by strangers,” she said quietly.

“And you’re alive… so you can tell Tyler this: I’m not part of his game.”

She slid the small pistol back into her coat. Then walked away.

The night was cold—but not colder than the message she just left behind.