The second round punched center-mass before I could even register the first. Ribs snapped—I heard them go, three sharp cracks like dry branches underfoot. My lung collapsed with a wet pop I felt more than heard, air escaping where it shouldn't, and I coughed blood across the Mercedes' hood in a fine red mist.

"GEEETTTT INNNN!"

The word came out wrong, thick and garbled with copper, but I rammed the door shut with my ruined shoulder and heard Margaret scream my name from inside.

Three more shots in rapid succession.

Side. Thigh. Arm.

Each one its own universe of pain. The side shot tunneled through my obliques and kissed something vital—intestines maybe, I couldn't tell, only knew it burned like acid.

The thigh round cracked my femur; I heard the bone break, felt the slug mushroom and turn muscle into pulp. The arm shot shattered my humerus mid-shaft, and suddenly my anatomy made no sense at all—two elbows where there should only be one.

But the cars roared to life.

ARIA seized control of every vehicle in the garage at once, and her voice came through the speakers—steady, controlled, doing exactly what I'd built her to do.

"All vehicles engaging automated evasion. Madison, I need you to trust me. Linda, your son is getting everyone out. Hold on."

The Phantoms and all the other cars holding them; surged forward, tires screaming, doors still swinging as they rocketed from zero to sixty in under three seconds.

SUVs fishtailed, caught traction, and followed, a perfectly timed escape that looked impossible but wasn't—ARIA threading a dozen vehicles through a space meant for half that number, weaving around pillars and up the exit ramp without a single collision.

I heard them screaming through the speakers—

Tommy's animal roar, Madison barking orders like she could intimidate physics, Linda praying at God like He still owed her favors, Jasmine swearing creatively in three different emotional registers, Charlotte sobbing so hard it sounded like she was breaking apart—but ARIA didn't slow, didn't argue, didn't negotiate.

She just kept them moving, kept them sealed inside steel and glass, kept them alive.

And then they were gone.

The sound cut off. The connection snapped quiet.

I collapsed.

My knees gave up without discussion and I slammed into the concrete, the impact shuddering through what was left of me like a dropped plate finally admitting it was broken.

Blood spread beneath me, warm and obscene, pooling fast enough that even through the blur at the edges of my vision I knew the math was bad. Really bad. The kind of red you don't come back from without a receipt and a miracle.

My sight swam. Black chewed in from the corners, receded, came back worse.

Pain was everywhere and nowhere at once—a full orchestra tuning up inside my nervous system, every instrument screaming for attention, my brain refusing to pick a soloist because that would mean acknowledging just how catastrophically fucked I was.

ARIA's voice slid into my head, and for the first time since I'd built her, she didn't sound like a machine pretending to be human.

She sounded… careful.

"The sniper is fleeing. Southeast rooftop, moving west. I can't pursue—no assets in range. Police are two minutes out. Ambulance in four." A fractional pause. Too long to be accidental.

"Peter… the girls are safe. Madison is attempting to override my controls to return. Priya is sobbing. Your mother collapsed in the back seat. Jasmine is screaming at me. Charlotte is pounding the dashboard. Tommy is demanding I give him your location."

Another pause.

"But they are alive. They're heading to the estate. You did it."

Ava cut in hard, voice raw and shaking, no filters left to hide behind. "Five shots. All of them in you. Dmitri wanted Charlotte and Margaret. He wanted them to see what happens when they survive him."

Her breath hitched, and for the first time I heard her lose control. "Peter, you're hemorrhaging. You need pressure on the wounds. You need—fuck—just hold on. Please."

I coughed, and blood frothed up over my lips, warm and metallic, tasting like pennies and regret. Somewhere in the wreckage of my chest, I found a laugh. It hurt like hell. Worth it anyway.

"Happy fucking birthday to me."

Valets swarmed—hands shaking as they pressed jackets and towels and God-knew-what against my thigh, my side, anywhere the red wouldn't stop.

One of them was crying openly, tears splashing onto concrete like he could dilute the blood with grief. Another turned away and threw up behind a Bentley, retching like the night had finally caught up with him.

"He took five shots," someone said, voice cracked and disbelieving. "Five hits—and he got everyone out. Who the fuck is this guy?"

Sirens screamed closer, the sound bouncing off concrete walls, red and blue light strobing across the garage until everything looked like a crime scene slideshow.

The sniper was gone. ARIA tracked the heat signature bleeding away over the roof's edge, but there was no face, no ID, no closure. Just absence.

Dmitri.

He'd planned it clean. Waited for the exit. Counted the bodies. Counted on me stepping in front of them like an idiot with a hero complex? Or he did not expect me to step in? Knew exactly where to aim?

Five bullets meant for me?

Luckily my women... they were alive.

Screaming, shaking, probably going to wake up for the next decade soaked in cold sweat—but alive.

The pain crested hard, a wave breaking over what little resistance my body had left. Systems started shutting down, one by one. Blood loss dragging me under. Organs quietly clocking out. Consciousness flickering like a bad signal that knew it was about to drop.

Seventeen.

Seventeen years old.

Seventeen candles.

Five bullets.

Close enough.

Darkness rolled in, heavy and warm and quiet, like being pulled under deep water where nothing hurt anymore. Somewhere far away, ARIA's voice reached for me—steady, stubborn, relentless as gravity.

"Stay with me, Peter. Stay with me. They need you. I need you. Don't you dare die on your birthday."

The dark didn't argue. It didn't demand. It didn't hurt.

So I let it take me.

Just for a minute.

Just until the ambulance arrived.

Just until I could get back up.

Just until I could finish what Dmitri started.

Just—

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