That was the record. Most caretakers lasted exactly 72 hours inside the Graham estate before fleeing through its iron

At 11:30 PM, the storm arrived with apocalyptic force.

Thunder shook the heavy glass of the Graham estate, and rain hit the roof like bursts of gunfire. Lightning flashed across the sky, casting long, monstrous shadows through the grand corridors.

The house was dark. Most of the staff had been dismissed early by Victor under the pretense of "elevated security measures."

Inside Declan’s master bedroom, the heavy four-poster bed was made up to look as though a man were sleeping beneath the dark velvet comforter. Two pillows had been stuffed under the covers to mimic the shape of a body.

Across the hall, inside the secret service passage behind the library wall, Declan sat in his wheelchair. Beside him stood Narin, holding a heavy iron breaker bar attached to the estate's main power grid.

Sitting behind them in the dark passage were three veteran guards—men who had served Declan's father thirty years ago and whose loyalty was absolute. They carried suppressed submachine guns, their faces painted with dark tactical grease.

Declan checked his glowing watch face. $11:59\text{ PM}$.

"They're on the terrace," Declan whispered into his throat mic, listening to the static feed from the secondary perimeter sensors Narin had set up earlier.

Through the two-way glass overlooking the bedroom, Narin watched as the heavy French doors leading from the terrace softly clicked open.

Four figures slipped into the bedroom, dripping rainwater onto the hardwood floor. They wore black tactical gear and night-vision goggles. Leading them was Victor.

Victor walked slowly toward the four-poster bed, drawing a heavy suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster. A dark, twisted sneer was carved onto his face.

"Rest in peace, boss," Victor whispered, raising his gun toward the shape under the covers.

"Now," Declan ordered.

Narin slammed the heavy iron breaker bar down!

CLACK!

Every single light in the east wing died instantly. The backup generators sputtered and failed—Narin had pulled the fuel lines twenty minutes earlier.

Simultaneously, high-grade strobe lights—which Narin had rigged to the secondary battery system—erupted inside the bedroom, flashing intensely at twenty blinding cycles per second.

The night-vision goggles worn by Victor and his three mercenaries instantly amplified the blinding strobe light by a thousand times!

"AAAAAHHH!" Victor screamed, tearing the night-vision goggles off his face, completely blinded by the searing white light burning his retinas.

The three mercenaries staggered backward, cursing, disoriented, tripping over the furniture in the blinding, pulsing chaos.

"MOVE!" Declan commanded.

The three loyal guards kicked open the hidden wall panel, rushing into the bedroom with submachine guns blazing!

THWIP-THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!

Suppressed gunfire tore through the disoriented mercenaries. Two of the hitmen dropped instantly to the floor, their weapons clattering against the wood. The third tried to run back toward the terrace, but a heavy burst caught him in the back, sending him crashing through the glass doors into the storm outside.

Victor, half-blinded and bleeding from stone splinters, scrambled across the floor, reaching for his dropped handgun.

He grabbed the weapon, spinning around toward the hallway, his sight slowly returning through tears of pain.

"DECLAN!" Victor roared, his face contorted in insane fury. "WHERE ARE YOU, YOU CRIPPLED BASTARD?!"

From the shadows of the doorway, the mechanical whir of an electric wheelchair echoed slowly into the room.

Declan rolled out of the dark corridor, illuminated only by the rhythmic flash of the strobe lights and the brilliant cracks of lightning outside the window. In his right hand, he held a heavy .45 caliber revolver.

"I'm right here, Victor," Declan said, his voice as cold as the grave.

Victor raised his gun with a wild, desperate scream—

BANG!

A single gunshot echoed like a cannon shot through the mansion.

Victor dropped his gun, clutching his shattered right shoulder, screaming in agony as he collapsed onto his knees in front of Declan’s chair.

Declan rolled closer until the barrel of his revolver was resting against the center of Victor’s forehead.

"You took my legs three years ago," Declan said, his voice deadly quiet above the sound of the thunder. "I gave you a second chance at life. And this is how you repay me?"

"Declan... please..." Victor sobbed, blood running down his arm, his arrogance completely shattered. "It was Rossi! Rossi made me do it! He threatened my family!"