On the old, blood-stained street, two vehicles painted in dark red stood under the dim light. Several men were busy around them. The truck, with its menacing appearance, now had its tires properly mounted. Two men were organizing the interior of the truck, where guns and ammunition were scattered haphazardly. Others were keeping watch on the street, eating as they worked. Brooke, frustrated after two failed attempts to start the truck, cursed under his breath.

  "Damn it, where the hell is Durand? Go hurry him up!" Brooke shouted, sticking his head out of the truck's cab and glancing up at the seventh floor of the building next to them. He turned to the young black man in the passenger seat, his voice laced with irritation. Durand was the name of someone still upstairs.

  "I'm on it," the young man replied, jumping out of the truck with his gun in hand and rushing into the small store, heading upstairs.

  Inside the store, Christine's tear-filled eyes betrayed her nervousness, though her crying masked it somewhat. Only someone paying close attention would notice the tension in her face. She leaned slightly against the wall, her lower back not quite touching it, as she slowly worked on cutting the ropes binding her hands with the scalpel. The scalpel's unique design made it easy for Vincent to handle, but Christine struggled. With her wrists tied, her movements were awkward and strained, causing her shoulders to tremble slightly.

  The others in the group grew tense. Christine's movements, though subtle, were noticeable enough to risk drawing attention.

  The stocky, older man, Nankov, stood by the rolled-up shutter door, leaning against the wall with a shotgun in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His nose was red, and his narrow eyes squinted as he scanned the faces of the group—some filled with sorrow, others with despair.

  Suddenly, Nankov straightened up, his cigarette paused mid-drag. His eyes narrowed further as they settled on Christine. He dropped the cigarette and took a step forward, his boots crunching over the scattered food wrappers on the floor. The sound echoed loudly in the otherwise quiet store.

  Everyone's hearts raced. It seemed Christine had been discovered.

  "Hey, little girl, what are you doing?" Nankov raised his gun as he approached Christine, his voice sharp. He had noticed her fidgeting and was now closing in. Vincent's hands, still bound behind his back, pressed against the floor as he prepared to act if necessary. His eyes followed Nankov's every move.

  "What's going on?" Merry, the man who had been eyeing Manuela, turned his attention to Nankov, asking the question. Nankov ignored him, his focus entirely on Christine, who now had a gun pointed at her head.

  Christine slowly looked up, her face crumpled with fear, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'm crying... I'm scared..." she stammered, her voice trembling. As she spoke, her sobs grew louder, her shoulders shaking in sync with her cries. It was a convincing act—her trembling could easily be mistaken for the natural quivering of someone overwhelmed with fear. Even as Nankov stood close, her performance was flawless.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  But the group's tension didn't ease. Nankov didn't immediately back off. He stared at Christine, seemingly unsure whether to believe her. Would he pull her up to check if she was hiding something? No one knew. If he were highly cautious, he might. If not, he might simply return to his post. Vincent was ready to act if needed.

  "Picking on a little girl now, huh? You bunch of scum!" A deep, angry voice suddenly cut through the tension. It was the muscular older man, Brooke's uncle, sitting bound in the corner.

  Everyone turned their heads toward him. The older man, his hands and feet tied, glared at Nankov with a mix of anger and authority. "Come here, I need to talk to you," he said, his tone serious and commanding.

  Nankov, now distracted, walked over to the older man, his expression sour. "What is it?" he asked.

  "Look over there!" the older man said, tilting his head toward Christine.

  For a moment, Vincent nearly jumped to his feet. Nankov was now standing at an angle where he might see Christine's hands working behind her back. But before Nankov could react, the older man, despite being tightly bound, used his core strength to kick out with both legs, striking Nankov in the left shin.

  "Ah!" Nankov cried out, hopping on one leg as he clutched his injured shin. He stumbled back, falling to the ground, his shotgun still in hand but shaking with rage. "You old bastard, I'll kill you!" he shouted, though his finger hesitated on the trigger. The older man was Brooke's uncle, and even Brooke hadn't dared to kill him despite their disagreements. Nankov knew crossing that line would mean his death.

  "Go ahead, shoot me! Do it!" the older man taunted, his chin raised in defiance.

  "What's going on?" Another man rushed in from the street, gun raised, scanning the room. Merry, standing nearby, chuckled and quietly explained the situation. The man shook his head with a smirk and walked back outside.

  Nankov, now the butt of the joke, cursed as he struggled to his feet, limping back to his post by the door. The older man's distraction had worked—Nankov seemed to have forgotten about Christine.

  Meanwhile, Christine, still quietly sobbing, turned to Laura and asked, "Can I lean on your shoulder for a while?"

  Nankov, still rubbing his leg and muttering curses, paid no attention. To him, Christine was just a scared little girl, the only one in the group who had been crying the entire time.

  Christine leaned against Laura's shoulder, her eyes red and swollen, staring blankly at the floor as her body continued to tremble with quiet sobs.

  Laura sighed, turning to Christine with a sad expression. "It's going to be okay, child," she whispered.

  Christine nodded, biting her lip, but the tears kept flowing.

  Outside, the truck sputtered once more, but again, it failed to start. Brooke's lack of skill with hotwiring was becoming painfully obvious.

  "Child, do you want to lean on me too?" Laura suddenly turned to Jason, her eyes glistening with tears, as if Christine's emotions had affected her deeply.

  "Auntie," Jason murmured, leaning into Laura's shoulder, his arm brushing against hers in a gesture of closeness. It was a touching scene—an older woman comforting two young people, as if they were facing their final moments together.

  After a while, Jason and Christine both sat up, Christine seeming calmer while Jason grew more somber. He turned to Old Mike, his expression serious. "Uncle, I need to apologize. If I don't do it now, it might be too late. I haven't treated you well, and I'm sorry."

  "Child..." Old Mike hesitated, then sighed. "I've made mistakes too. You don't need to apologize."

  Jason insisted, his voice firm. "No, Uncle, you have to accept my apology. I can't die with this on my conscience."

  Old Mike finally nodded, a small smile breaking through. "I accept," he said, nudging Jason's shoulder gently.

  Suddenly, a woman's scream pierced the air, startling both Merry and Nankov. They turned to see Manuela, her eyes wide with fear, pointing at the ground near her. "There's a bug!" she cried, scrambling toward Robbie, who in turn shifted closer to Old Mike. It looked like Manuela was genuinely terrified, her fear causing a chain reaction as everyone shuffled to make space.

  Manuela's acting was... convincing.