Satrio froze. His senses screamed. He had accounted for the threat from the front—from the end of the dark corridor—but not from the side of the door he was about to open. The trap had been set perfectly; they had anticipated his every professional move. They didn't just want to incapacitate him—they wanted him dead.
"Your game is over," one of the men said with a cold smile, the gleaming barrel of his pistol reflecting the corridor lights.
Though startled, the hard training he'd endured for months immediately took over. Satrio's brain calculated at insane speed: two attackers, two meters away, pistols with suppressors—this was no empty threat. Time advantage: three-tenths of a second before they fired. Satrio knew that if he just stood there, he would die.
"Satrio, be careful," Vina said anxiously. Her body trembled with fear, her voice nearly choking off, hidden behind a stack of boxes.
Satrio didn't retreat. He made an impossible move, one that violated every basic defensive instinct. His feet drove him forward. In an instant, he dropped low, his body sliding across the cold ceramic floor. At the same time, two muffled shots rang out almost simultaneously, ripping through the corridor's silence. Two black bullet holes appeared in the wall just above Satrio's head.
Satrio moved like water flowing beneath a rock. As he slid between the two men's legs, he swept their ankles with his strong, precise arms. It was a street trick he'd learned long before he became a professional bodyguard.
THUD! THUD!
The two suited men crashed to the floor, their pistols flying loose and bouncing off the wall with a deafening metallic clang in the warehouse's silence. Satrio was already standing upright, twisting around and swiftly grabbing the folding knife he carried. The blade felt cold and familiar in his palm.
One man tried to get up. Satrio gave him no chance. With lightning speed, he slammed the pommel of the knife, held in reverse grip, into the man's temple.
CLACK!
The man immediately staggered, his consciousness gone, and collapsed back onto the floor with a heavy thud. The second man, faster and better trained, had already pulled a backup folding knife from his inner pocket.
"You're fast, tranny," the man hissed, his eyes sharp and full of contempt, exactly like Vina's stare at the office. Instead of weakening him, that contempt fueled the anger burning inside Satrio. It reminded him what he was fighting for: his dignity and Vina's safety.
Satrio ignored the words, focusing only on the threatening knife movements. He didn't use the knife in his hand to attack—it was too dangerous and risky. Satrio drove his closed fist into the man's throat at lightning speed, a strike designed to shut down his breathing reflex without killing him. It was a clean, precise blow.
The man gasped, his eyes going wide, and the knife fell from his rigid hand. Satrio caught it in midair—a nearly impossible reflex—gripping it in reverse, now holding two knives, ready to defend himself, ready to kill if necessary.
All of it happened in under five seconds, a swift, brutal dance of death performed on the slick warehouse floor.
Vina, watching everything from behind the stack of boxes, gasped for breath. She saw something she had never expected: Satrio was no longer just a bodyguard. He was a predator—cold, deadly, and brutally efficient. His fighting skills far surpassed ordinary security training.
Satrio stood in the middle of the service corridor, now brightly lit by the warehouse lights. In front of him, the two attackers lay sprawled—one unconscious, the other gasping and helpless. Behind him, seven steps away beside the door, Vina stood frozen in terror.
The brief fight didn't make Satrio feel euphoric. Instead, it triggered a deadly silent alarm inside him. His false sense of security had been ripped apart.
The deafening silence after the chaos suddenly shattered. Satrio threw the criminal's knife into a dark corner, breaking eye contact with the attackers.
"It's safe now, Miss. Let's get out of here," Satrio said, his voice low and hoarse, breaking the silence. His tone wasn't asking—it was ordering.
Vina didn't move, as if her feet were nailed to the cold concrete floor. Her knees trembled violently, struggling to support a body that suddenly felt like lead. Her face had gone deathly pale, and cold sweat dampened her temples, leaving the horror still clutching at her.
"We can't waste time, Miss," Satrio hissed, his tone urgent and deep. Without another word, he immediately scooped Vina up in his strong arms and carried her out from behind the stack of cardboard boxes where she'd been hiding. Vina gripped Satrio's shirt tightly, afraid he would let go.
"Satrio, we need to go to the hospital. Your hand is hurt," Vina said, her voice trembling more from the fear that remained than from concern. Her eyes immediately fixed on the cloth wrapped around Satrio's left arm.
"I'll just go to the nearest clinic," Satrio replied curtly, his steps steady as he headed for the warehouse exit. He didn't want to deal with police questions at a major hospital.
"Put me down, your hand is injured!" Vina insisted. She stared at the wound, hastily tied with a strip of torn cloth, where fresh blood had begun seeping through and forming a dark red stain.
"Relax, Miss. I'm still strong. It's not a serious wound," Satrio said—a blatant lie, obvious from the way his face was beginning to pale as he endured the searing pain. He did need medical attention, but his top priority was getting Vina away from this dangerous place.
They soon reached the outside. A black car was already waiting, its engine running quietly. They both got inside.
Vina quickly gave an order. "Sir, find the nearest clinic. Satrio's wound needs to be treated immediately." There was a new authority in her voice, a change Satrio noticed. She let Satrio lean comfortably against the back seat before sitting beside him, keeping her distance while also watching over him.
"Yes, Miss." The driver nodded tensely and immediately hit the gas. "I'm sorry, Miss. I shouldn't have left you and Mr. Satrio," the man said regretfully, reflecting the tension that had just unfolded.
"It's all right, sir. Protecting Miss is my job. This wound happened because I was careless," Satrio cut in, defending the driver without turning around. He didn't want to see disappointment or guilt in Vina's eyes.
Not long afterward, the car stopped in front of a small clinic on the outskirts of the city. Satrio went in with Vina and immediately received medical attention. The nurse carefully cleaned his wound, then applied a thick new bandage.
After the nurse left, Satrio took a seat on the waiting-room sofa, his back perfectly straight, his eyes scanning every corner even though the physical threat had passed. He knew the greatest danger often came after the silence.
Vina stepped inside, her voice soft and hesitant. "Are you feeling better?"
Satrio sat up straight, his right shoulder stiff as if he were trying to hold back the pain. His eyes remained fixed on the wall in front of him, avoiding his boss's gaze. "Yes, Miss. Thank you."
Vina shifted her feet, making her skirt rustle softly. She drew a breath. "I should be thanking you. You saved me from that attack."
Satrio's jaw tightened. At last, he turned, his gaze cold and sharp. "That wasn't the real attack, Miss." He indicated his new bandage with his chin. "It was a message. And you know exactly who sent it."