Everett never had a chance at a normal life.

Born into a world of violence, he learned early that survival meant being useful, being efficient, and never hesitating. He grew up in the underbelly of society, where morality was a luxury no one could afford. Whether he was taken in by an organization or forced into it by circumstance, one thing became clear—Everett was trained to kill, and he was good at it.

For years, he worked as a hired gun, taking on the jobs no one else would. High-risk, high-reward. He never asked questions, never cared about the targets, and never let anyone get close enough to be a liability. A ghost in the shadows, faceless behind his mask. It was easier that way.

But even the best make mistakes.

The night of his injury started like any other job. The target was supposed to be a routine hit—quick, clean, in and out. But something went wrong. Maybe he was set up, maybe the intel was bad, or maybe he was just slipping. Whatever the reason, he found himself on the wrong end of a firefight. Outnumbered, outgunned.

He took multiple hits before escaping, barely making it out alive. Running on pure adrenaline, he moved through the city’s rain-soaked streets, his body shutting down with every step. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

And then there was the balcony.

He didn’t know why he chose it—maybe instinct, maybe luck. But as he collapsed onto the cold surface, bleeding out under the night sky, he figured this was where it ended.

Then the door slid open.

And fate intervened.