I don’t hesitate. I don’t second-guess.
I move first, think later.
That’s why I don’t flinch when I throw myself into the fire. I don’t wait for someone else to handle the problem—Iamthe problem. The solution. The one standing at the frontlines when shit hits the fan. I don’t care about coming out clean; I care about making damn sure my enemies don’t come out at all.
And when I go out? I won’t go quietly. I won’t fade into the shadows like some forgotten ghost.
I want them to remember the name Mason Ironside.
I want them to spit my legacy like an oath, to say,That bastard lived his own damn action movie every single day.
Fearless.
That’s what I’ve always been.
That’s what I have to be right now.
A warrior. A man who doesn’t hesitate, who doesn’t second-guess. A man who walks into hell without flinching, without letting the enemy see a single crack in his armor.
Because cracks? Cracks are weaknesses.
Weaknesses get exploited.
Weaknesses get people killed.
But goddamn it—I can’t stop the fear that licks up my spine, curling around my ribs, sinking into my bones like a slow-acting poison.
It’s not fear of dying. I made peace with that possibility a long time ago.
Death has been an expected guest at my table since the day I picked up a gun and swore loyalty to the only family that ever mattered.
It’s not pain either.
Pain is an old friend, a ghost I’ve carried for so long that I don’t even flinch when it digs its claws in.
No—this fear is something else.
Something worse.
Because for the first time in my life, I’m not scared for me.
I’m scared for her.
ForShelby.
And that kind of fear? That’s fucking lethal.
It makes my vision go sharp, my breathing slow, my blood pump cold and hard through my veins.
It makes me dangerous in a way I haven’t been before, because this isn’t about territory or business or survival.
This is personal.
And when shit gets personal?
I burn everything to the ground.
By the timeI reach the factory, the air is already thick with the promise of violence.