Pharrell lunged forward, gripping his USP-45 tightly, his heart pounding like a war drum. He squeezed the trigger, sending rounds into the air.

Aban moved like liquid, twisting and weaving as the bullets sliced past him, a sinister smirk curling his lips.

Pharrell gritted his teeth, ejecting the spent magazine and slamming a fresh one into place. The slide clicked back into place.

His hands moved with muscle memory, pulling the slide back. One live round got ejected from the magazine. He wasted one round.

“Shit!”

He leveled the gun, his breath steadying as he aimed at Aban’s chest.

The iron sights aligned perfectly. He fired.

Aban pivoted on one foot, sidestepping gracefully as the bullet flew past him.

The motion was fluid, almost taunting, as if every dodge was choreographed just for Pharrell’s frustration.

From the sidelines, Reese and Caleb sat cross-legged on the grass, stacks of cash spread between them. A white cardboard box sat at the center of the group, already stuffed with bets.

“C’mon, Pharrell, don’t choke now!”

Reese shouted, waving a fifty-dollar bill in the air.

Behind him, Arya and Arwan stood with arms crossed, grinning knowingly.

“I told you Aban would wipe the floor with him.”

Arya said, scribbling something onto a makeshift betting slip.

“Easiest money I’ve ever made.”

“Not over yet,”

Caleb muttered, throwing another fifty into the pot.

“Pharrell’s got fight in him. Double or nothing.”

Reese groaned but matched the bet, slapping his cash into the pile.

Meanwhile, Aban darted forward, his speed blinding.

The pounding of his boots against the grass was the only warning Pharrell had.

Pharrell, refusing to back down, snapped his torso to track Aban’s movements, his eyes locking onto his target.

Another shot—another miss.

Aban moved again, his body a motion blur.

“Missed again! Pay up, Reese!”

Arya called, smirking as he reached for the growing stack of cash.

“Not yet!”

Reese shot back.

“Pharrell’s just getting started!”

But Pharrell’s frustration boiled over as Aban got too close.

He fired again and again, each shot louder than the last, echoing like cannon fire.

Aban sidestepped each one, his expression calm, almost bored.

Then Aban struck.

With a fluid motion, he ducked under Pharrell’s aim, driving forward with the speed of a sprinter.

His elbow slammed into Pharrell’s neck, cutting off his breath.

The world tilted for Pharrell as the force lifted him off the ground and drove him into the concrete floor.

Pain exploded in his spine as he hit the ground, the impact rattling his teeth.

Stars danced in his vision, but Pharrell gritted his teeth and scrambled to his feet, his instincts screaming at him to move.

He reached for his gun, but Aban was already there, faster than he thought.

A sharp kick sent his gun skittering across the floor, metal scraping against concrete.

From the sidelines, Danny shook his head, leaning closer to the action.

“Pharrell’s done for,”

He muttered.

“Looks like we’re not stonks.”

“Shut up, he’s still got a chance!”

Reese snapped, though his voice carried more hope than conviction.

Before Pharrell could react, Aban drew his own pistol, the black steel glinting under the dim overhead lights.

The cold barrel pressed against Pharrell’s forehead, the chill biting into his skin.

Pharrell’s breath hitched, his muscles coiling for one last desperate move.

But Aban’s finger tightened on the trigger, his smirk razor-sharp.

Pop

The sound echoed through the field as the rubber bullet struck Pharrell’s forehead.

The pain was immediate and searing, like a hornet’s sting amplified a hundredfold.

“Ahhh!” Pharrell groaned, his hand flying to the growing welt on his forehead.

It bulged instantly, red, as he stumbled back, glaring up at Aban.

“Aw man!” Danny exclaimed, slapping his own forehead as he pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet.

“Fuck! I lost 50 bucks!”

Reese groaned, tossing his cash toward the pile in the box. Before it could even hit the ground, Arya snatched it up with a grin.

“Wrong bet, newbies.”

Arya said smugly, slipping the cash into the box and shaking it triumphantly.

Caleb sighed, tossing his money in as well.

“Yeah, yeah. Next time, I’m betting against Pharrell.”

Aban just chuckled as he pulled the slide of his pistol back and ejected the smoking casing, then he walked away.

“What did I say about keeping your distance from the enemy as long as you still have bullets, you idiot?!”

Orion stormed over and smacked the back of Pharrell’s head with enough force to send a small shockwave through his brain. His face was clearly exasperated.

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Before Pharrell could protest, Orion grabbed his left ear and yanked him off the ground like a toddler.

“Ah, shit! Shit! It hurts!”

Pharrell flailed, his feet kicking uselessly in the air.

“It’s supposed to hurt!”

Orion growled, his grip tightening.

“Maybe it’ll knock some sense into that empty skull of yours! How many times today—ten times, Pharrell—did I tell you? Keep your distance from the enemy!”

Aban, standing to the side, struggled to keep a straight face, biting his lip hard enough to hurt.

“Yeah, but—”

Pharrell tried to argue, his voice breaking as Orion leaned closer, yelling directly into his ear.

“This is why you lost to that 80-year-old granny yesterday!”

Orion bellowed, his voice echoing through the open field like a megaphone.

“She wiped the floor with you! Why? Because you rushed in like a headless chicken!”

“Granny?!”

Pharrell wheezed, his face red from being hoisted.

“She looked like a teenage girl!”

“That’s not the point!”

Orion roared, shaking him slightly for emphasis.

“You could’ve won if you’d just sniped her from a distance! But nooooo, you had to do your ‘heroic charge’ nonsense like it’s a fucking action movie!”

Aban stifled a laugh, his shoulders shaking as he looked away.

“But I’m a flanker!”

Pharrell squeaked, still wriggling in Orion’s grasp.

“A flanker?!”

Orion’s voice hit a new octave, his disbelief palpable.

“That’s not how a flanker works! You don’t flank when you’ve got ammo to spare—not when you’re down to one sad little magazine!”

He released Pharrell with a grunt, letting him crumple to the floor like a discarded bag of laundry.

Orion dusted his hands off and turned, walking away with all the dignity of a man who’d just defeated a mosquito.

“I look forward to watching you embarrass yourself again.”

He said over his shoulder.

Pharrell groaned, rubbing his sore ear as he muttered.

“Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence…”

Orion stopped at the edge of the room, pivoting sharply on his heel to face them again.

“Rematch!”

Orion barked again, the authority in his tone enough to make even the walls flinch.

Pharrell slumped with a groan, dragging himself back toward the ammo box like a man condemned.

Aban, still chuckling, strolled over beside him, far too pleased with himself for Pharrell’s liking.

At the ammo box, Aban casually plucked a single round, inspecting it briefly before sliding it into his magazine with the kind of relaxed confidence that grated on Pharrell’s nerves.

Meanwhile, Pharrell yanked out five full magazines, each holding fifteen rounds, and slammed them onto the table.

Without warning, Orion's gunshot shattered the air.

Pharrell bolted forward, his eyes locked on Aban, who stood calm and motionless in the distance, like a predator waiting for its prey.

“Up for bets this time?”

Arya asked, casually leaning back and tossing a crumpled bill into the cardboard box.

“Not anymore,”

Reese muttered.

“Pharrell’s got no chance.”

“I’m saving my money this round,”

Caleb added.

“Ah, come on, man!”

Danny groaned.

“Where’s the fun in that? I’m putting twenty on Aban wiping the floor with him.”

Arya smirked, tapping the box smugly.

“Bro, I’ve heard that phrase like three times already!”

Rocky exclaimed.

“You need new material.”

Caleb leaned in, raising an eyebrow.

“Y’all betting on Aban this time? Count me in!”

Caleb said, slapping a twenty onto the growing pile.

“Fuck it, I’m down!”

Rocky exclaimed, digging into his pocket. He slapped thirty dollars into the box.

Pharrell’s frustration boiled as the conversation filtered through his ears. His focus stayed locked on Aban. His fingers itched to draw his gun, but instinct told him to close the distance first.

Aban’s sly grin deepened. He knew the game better than anyone. Pharrell wouldn’t resist drawing his weapon once he got close enough.

Suddenly, Pharrell veered left, yanking his pistol free in one fluid motion. He fired a wild burst, each round slicing through the air like a desperate scream.

But Aban was already moving, his body a blur of precise, calculated motion. He weaved, ducked, and sidestepped each shot with maddening grace, his smirk never wavering.

Sweat streamed down Pharrell’s face as he sprinted harder, his boots pounding the ground like war drums. His frustration mounted with every missed shot, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Aban let him close the distance, his sharp, predatory gaze tracking every twitch and movement. He was toying with him, and they both knew it.

At just the right moment, Aban surged forward.

Pharrell panicked, firing again in desperation. The shots were wild, aimless, his frustration and exhaustion clouding his focus.

“Nobody’s betting on Pharrell?”

Arya asked.

“No.”

“No.”

“No.”

Reese, Danny and Caleb answered simultaneously.

Pharrell gritted his teeth, rage burning behind his eyes as Aban closed in, calm and unrelenting.

I’m wasting time chasing him! Focus, damn it!

Grinding his teeth, Pharrell stopped trying to predict Aban’s movement and unloaded his entire magazine in a straight line on full auto.

The gunshot muffled all the external noise as the bullets tore through the air.

Aban’s instincts kicked in, his body moving like liquid as he evaded the barrage.

But then—on his third step—his face changed.

Three bullets carved toward him, their trajectories too tight to dodge.

Aban threw up his arm to shield himself, and the bullets shattered against his forearm.

Blood sprayed from torn skin, the impact forcing a hiss of pain through Aban’s clenched teeth.

“Oh shit!”

Caleb exclaimed, sitting forward.

“What’s wrong!”

Reese asked, leaning in.

“Shut up and watch!”

Caleb answered.

Pharrell didn’t waste a second.

He charged, reloading mid-stride, his focus sharp as a blade.

His gun was ready, and so was he.

But Aban wasn’t out yet.

As Pharrell closed in, Aban opened his arms wide, aiming to grapple him into submission.

Pharrell anticipated the move. He ducked, rolled forward, and came up behind Aban in one fluid motion. His gun snapped into position, and he fired at Aban’s back.

The shots missed as Aban twisted and turned, his movements impossibly quick.

Pharrell lunged forward, bringing the barrel of his gun to Aban’s abdomen at point-blank range.

Aban reacted in a flash, slamming Pharrell’s arm away.

The shot went wide, echoing into the sky.

A split-second later, Aban’s fist connected with Pharrell’s cheek in a haymaker, sending him staggering.

Pharrell barely had time to process the pain before Aban seized his wrist, wresting the gun from his grip and tossing it aside.

But Pharrell wasn’t done.

He twisted, using Aban’s grip against him, and with a surge of energy, he kicked off Aban’s chest, flipping over his shoulder and landing on his back.

In one motion, Pharrell locked his legs around Aban’s neck and drove an elbow into his head.

Aban snarled and retaliated with brute strength, yanking Pharrell off and slamming him to the ground.

Before Pharrell could recover, Aban’s foot crashed into his side, the sharp pain spreading like wildfire as Pharrell coughed and spat onto the dirt.

Pharrell rolled onto his back, panting, the scorching sun blinding him as sweat dripped into his eyes.

His chest heaved, his limbs felt like lead, but through the haze of exhaustion, he glanced at Orion.

Orion met his gaze for a moment, then closed his eyes and turned away.

Pharrell didn’t even have time to curse him. A shadow loomed over him, and Aban descended like a hawk, his elbow driving into Pharrell’s stomach with devastating force.

Pharrell’s head snapped back as the air left his lungs in a strangled gasp.

Pain exploded in his ribs, and he could almost hear something crack. His vision blurred, and darkness began to creep in.

“KO!”

Aban roared, leaping to his feet with both arms raised triumphantly.

The crowd erupted in cheers, swarming Aban like moths to a flame.

He laughed, grabbing Arya in a playful headlock and ruffling his hair before patting him on the back.

Pharrell lay on the ground, dazed and aching, watching them celebrate.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and let the sounds of laughter and celebration wash over him.