Listen to me, cocksucka. You gotta understand something about the way my head works, because people look at a guy like me and they get it twisted. They think it’s about the blood, or the gunfights, or the noise. Nah. Fuck all that amateur-hour bullshit. You think I’m losing my motherfuckin' mind back there just because some mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging greaseball cracked Miller over the noggin with a wrench and left him leaking on the tiles? Please. People get split open every day in this line of work. That’s just the motherfuckin' weather. You patch 'em up, you keep moving. No. What really set me off—what had my chest heaving like a couple of pit bulls fighting over a pork chop in a phone booth—was the pure, unadulterated disrespect of the whole damn thing. Here I am, humping across three hundred yards of concrete like a bat outta hell, lungs burning, boots eating up the floor, pushing past my absolute limit, and this spineless, ass-kissing piece of garbage has the absolute balls to stand on the running board of a Humvee, flash me a polite little grin, and give me a slow-motion, motherfuckin' military salute before peeling out into the night? Are you kidding me right now, dawg? That ain't just escaping. That’s standing on my chest and spitting right in my fucking eye. That’s looking a apex predator dead in the face and treating him like some toothless, useless mutt. Like I’m a fucking joke. And the worst part of it? The part that’s eating a hole straight through my stomach right now while I’m pacing this dark-ass hallway alone? I took an L. Me. Daniel. I don't take losses. I don't do 'em. They don't exist in my vocabulary, cocksucka. In my whole life, I don't get outsmarted, I don't get outflanked, and I sure as shit don't let some worthless, brain-dead dipshit make a complete fucking chump out of me in my own backyard. But right here? In this godforsaken black site? I let some pathetic, cock-sucking coward slip through my fingers by a microscopic sliver of time. Half a second! Think about that! Half a second is all it took for him to lock that heavy-ass steel door in my face. I am furious at the world, yeah, but let me tell you something: I am beating the absolute fuck out of myself right now. I'm sick to my stomach. I’m staring at my own hands wondering how the hell I let my guard down like a clumsy piece-of-shit amateur. I should’ve been through that threshold before the latch even clicked. I should’ve had my boots sliding across that garage floor, my momentum carrying me right into his ribs, and my hands wrapped so tight around that cocksucker's throat that his eyes would’ve popped right out of his fucking skull like grapes. I was too slow. I gave that little maggot the angle, I gave him the gap, and I let my execution slip for one second. One second! That ain't just a mistake, dawg—that's a total failure of discipline. And a guy like me? I don't forgive myself for that shit. Not ever. So yeah, let Billy and the commander stare. Let 'em look at me like I lost my fucking marbles, like I’m some unhinged animal tearing up the scullery. They don't know what it's like to carry this kind of standard, to never accept a backward step, only to have some pathetic, boot-licking parasite drag your pride through the mud. But ya Holmes, that rat bought himself a one-way ticket straight to hell, he just don't know the train's already leaving the station. I’m gonna hunt that motherfucker down till the wheels fall off, till the gas runs out, till there's nothing left of him to bury. And when I finally catch up to him? Oh, I'm gonna wipe that smirk right off his pinche face. It’s gonna be Tremendous. Absolute madness, dawg. You can take that to the bank. Listen to me, pendejo. You think the anger stops when I walk out of that hallway? You think pacing this dark-ass corridor with my knuckles bleeding is the worst of it? Nah. That’s just the engine warming up, and the furnace is running pure, unadulterated hatred right now. Because once I track that miserable, cock-sucking parasite down—and I will track him down, down to the very last terrified breath he draws—we’re gonna have a conversation. A real intimate, up-close-and-personal conversation. I ain't just gonna put a clean bullet between his eyes and call it a day. That’s too easy. That’s a luxury, a mercy, and that worthless piece of garbage don’t deserve a clean exit after making a fool out of me. No, man. I need him to feel it. I need him to experience every single ounce of the agony he brought down on this house. I need him to understand what happens when you poke a bear and have the absolute audacity to smile in his face. First thing I’m gonna do? I’m gonna hunt that maggot through the dirt until he's got nowhere left to run, nowhere left to crawl. I’m gonna strip away every little safety net, every digital breadcrumb, every pathetic little comfort he thinks he’s got waiting for him, and back him into a dark, dead-end corner. And when I finally put my hands on him? Oh, it’s gonna be biblical, dawg. Absolute bloody murder. I’m gonna grab that cocksucker by the collar of that tactical vest he loves so much, and I’m gonna drag him right back to where he gave me that cute little salute. I’m gonna throw him down on that exact same concrete floor where Miller's blood is still drying. I want him on his knees, choking on his own spit, looking up at me and realizing just how astronomically fucked he is. No more grinning. No more waving. Just pure, unadulterated terror when it finally sets in that his number’s up. I ain't rushing it, cocksucka. I’m gonna take my time carving him up. I’m gonna start with the hands—the very hands he used to type his little digital files and lock that door in my face. I’ll take a heavy-duty pair of wire cutters or a flathead screwdriver and crush the bones in his fingers one by one, popping the joints right out of their sockets until he’s screaming bloody murder, begging me to just put him out of his misery. And when he's hoarse, when his voice is nothing more than a wet, ragged wheeze, I’ll open him up. I’m talking about taking a combat blade and slicing open his tactical vest and his shirt, laying that chest wide open to the cold air. I want to watch him stare at his own insides while I dig around, showing him what a real, raw, bleeding loss looks like. I’ll peel back that skin slow, letting the arterial spray paint the walls, letting him choke on the copper taste of his own failure. By the time I’m done with him, there ain't gonna be an identifiable piece left. I’m gonna smash his teeth down his throat, shatter his kneecaps so he can never run from a consequence again, and leave what's left of his carcass rotting in a ditch where the stray dogs won't even touch it. So let him drive. Let him run into the dark and hide behind his little steering wheel. It ain't gonna save him, dawg. The clock’s ticking, the trap is set, and when I catch that little rat bastard, I’m gonna make him pray for the grave. You can take that to the bank. Absolute fucking curtains.

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