It was the evening of December 25th, and northern Vermont was wrapped in a heavy blanket of snow, the pine trees standing in silent vigilance beneath a steel-gray sky. Snowflakes drifted lazily, illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering down between the branches, creating an eerie yet peaceful stillness across the wooded outskirts of Stowe.
Slowly rolling through the fresh powder and gravel came a battered, matte-black 2008 Ford Crown Victoria, its tires crunching softly against snow and ice. Once a proud police interceptor, the vehicle now wore the scars of countless undercover operations—paint faded, bumpers dented, and tinted windows scratched by years of harsh Vermont winters. Though nondescript and shabby at a glance, hidden beneath this mundane exterior was an arsenal of carefully concealed tactical gear and emergency equipment.
Behind the wheel, Frank Armstrong drove steadily, eyes scanning the road ahead with quiet vigilance. At thirty-five years old, Frank carried himself with disciplined authority—lean and athletic, he had a quiet intensity, his face handsome yet severe beneath short, neatly cut golden-blonde hair. His piercing blue eyes remained fixed ahead, reading the snowy road as though decoding a complex puzzle. Frank wore simple but practical undercover attire: a fitted dark tactical sweater beneath a well-worn tactical vest, rugged cargo pants, and black combat boots. His holstered Glock 19 rested comfortably on his thigh, his military-grade M4 carbine propped carefully within reach beside him.
In the passenger seat sat Bruce Redford—massive, awkward, and seemingly out of place. At nearly six feet eight inches tall and around three hundred fifty pounds, Bruce dominated the confined space of the sedan. His oversized frame filled the seat, knees pressing uncomfortably against the glove compartment, elbows bumping clumsily against the door. Bruce's head, large and egg-shaped, tilted slightly to one side, resting uncomfortably against the window. Cheap sunglasses, heavily scratched from years of misuse, sat perched upon his nose despite the nighttime darkness, giving him an oddly comic air of seriousness.
His clothing was a mishmash of thrift store finds—a faded, ketchup-stained gray hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves frayed from nervous pulling; a battered black tactical vest, straps patched clumsily with silver duct tape, barely managing to contain his bulk; and threadbare jeans frayed at the knees. His battered white sneakers had mismatched laces, their soles peeling slightly, a faded sticker of the White Tree of Gondor still defiantly visible on one heel. Bruce never seemed to notice his own eccentricities; to him, comfort came from the familiar.
Across Bruce's massive lap rested his beloved AR-15 rifle, affectionately and somewhat absurdly named "Happygun." Bruce had carefully decorated the otherwise menacing weapon with colorful, cheerful stickers: fluffy white bunnies, each smiling encouragingly; and near the grip, the wise green face of Jedi Master Yoda calmly reminding Bruce of courage and peace.
Frank glanced sideways, eyes catching Bruce quietly stroking Happygun's barrel with one massive, gentle hand. He suppressed a smile, shaking his head slightly. Despite his awkwardness and seeming innocence, Bruce possessed an unwavering earnestness that Frank respected deeply—even if he didn't always fully understand it.
Neither man spoke aloud. Their quiet, unspoken bond needed few words, shaped by years of trust and countless dangerous missions. They simply drove together, silent except for the gentle rumble of the car and the occasional hiss of snow beneath tires.
Suddenly, movement darted from the shadows of the frozen underbrush—a large gray rat skittered onto the snow-covered road, stopping abruptly, its tiny black eyes reflecting briefly in the sedan's headlights.
Frank saw it instantly, his expression unchanged, foot steady on the accelerator. Beside him, however, Bruce jolted forward sharply, enormous hands shooting out to brace against the dashboard, his deep voice breaking urgently:
"O-oh SHIT, STOP!"
Reflexively, Frank slammed on the brakes. The sedan skidded to a halt, tires biting sharply into the snow and gravel, kicking up a gentle cloud of powder illuminated by the headlights.
The rat froze briefly, whiskers twitching, before swiftly darting safely into the opposite brush.
Silence returned. Frank slowly turned his head toward Bruce, irritation mingling with bewilderment.
"You screamed like we nearly hit a child, Bruce," Frank said flatly.
Bruce eased back into his seat, cheeks flushed slightly with embarrassment, but relief clearly visible in his eyes. His voice, typically hindered by a stutter, softened sheepishly.
"I-I'm sorry, Frank," he murmured. "B-but did you s-see that? L-little guy made it. Brave little bastard."
Frank sighed heavily, shaking his head, a faint hint of exasperation breaking through his stern demeanor. "Bruce, it's a rat. A very common animal."
Bruce glanced thoughtfully toward the bushes where the rat had disappeared, still gently stroking Happygun. His expression grew solemn, quietly earnest.
"Yeah, b-but some p-people get clear paths, safe l-lanes, bulletproof lives," Bruce said slowly. "Some of us… we j-just gotta run. Alone, scared, but still trying. Th-that little guy, he was one of us."
Frank paused, caught off guard by Bruce's quiet sincerity. He turned his gaze back toward the road ahead, exhaling softly. Bruce's stubborn kindness and idealistic views often challenged Frank's more pragmatic approach—but somehow, Frank found comfort in that unwavering optimism, especially tonight.
"We're almost there," Frank finally said, his voice softer than usual, a quiet acknowledgment of Bruce's words. "Let's stay focused."
Bruce nodded quietly, his fingers gently tracing Yoda's serene face on Happygun, finding quiet reassurance from the wise Jedi master's calm expression. Frank glanced again briefly at Bruce's innocent awkwardness, suddenly grateful for his partner's stubborn kindness—no matter how naïve it seemed in their dangerous profession.
Ahead of them, at the end of this snowy road, lay the mansion—an elegant, upscale ski lodge secretly transformed into a criminal hideout, its rustic charm hiding sinister truths within.
The battered sedan rolled onward into the snowy darkness, its occupants silent, tense, and prepared for what lay ahead. Bruce's awkward sincerity and Frank's disciplined professionalism formed an unlikely but powerful combination, silently united by trust, mutual respect, and a commitment to something greater than themselves—even if it meant facing dangers far greater than any single mission should require.
On this cold Christmas night, beneath Vermont's quiet winter skies, two undercover cops moved toward their destiny, unaware of how profoundly the night would soon change their lives.
Frank eased the battered sedan silently into the shadows, parking it behind a dense cluster of snow-dusted pine trees just outside the perimeter of the mansion's clearing. They both stared out at the structure ahead—an impressive ski lodge turned upscale Airbnb, now lit faintly with colored Christmas lights strung haphazardly across its expansive wooden balconies and timber walls. Warm yellow illumination seeped through frosted windows, suggesting a cozy holiday celebration within. But Bruce and Frank knew better.
The sprawling front yard was crowded with luxury cars parked chaotically—at least thirty or forty vehicles now lined up, evidence of a significant gathering. SUVs, muscle cars, sedans, and even a few expensive sports cars gleamed under a dusting of fresh snow, glistening beneath pale moonlight. Each vehicle represented dangerous men and women, hardened criminals, who had chosen tonight—Christmas night—to gather, party hard, and revel in excess and indulgence away from the law's watchful eyes.
Bruce squinted thoughtfully behind his scratched sunglasses, a deep furrow forming across his large forehead. His gaze, however, wasn't fixed on the mansion itself, but on the enormous industrial-grade diesel fuel tank placed conspicuously close to the mansion's right side. It was painted a dull industrial red, with bold, fading warnings clearly visible beneath the moon's gentle illumination:
DANGER – FLAMMABLE. NO SMOKING. KEEP FIRE AWAY.
To Bruce, its placement seemed deliberate—almost divine—as if God Himself had arranged it, placing it conveniently close to the mansion. He stared at it with quiet reverence, determination solidifying in his gentle but stubborn heart. He believed fiercely that this wasn't just coincidence; this was destiny offering a swift and definitive resolution.
Frank, meanwhile, was already reaching for the police radio, ready to report their position and call for backup, his voice professional and calm: "Unit Bravo-Fourteen—"
Bruce's large hand reached out gently, stopping Frank midsentence. Frank turned sharply, frustration flickering in his eyes. "Bruce, we've gone over this. We can't handle this alone, especially not tonight. There's got to be fifty, maybe more inside."
Bruce shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving the fuel tank. "Th-that's why it's perfect, Frank. I-I know you think I'm crazy, b-but this is a sign. W-we blow that tank, the whole operation goes. No more f-fentanyl. No s-standoff, no good c-cops dying tonight."
Frank stared at Bruce incredulously, his voice lowering, urgent and strained. "Bruce, this isn't a movie. You can't blow things up just because they seem convenient. We're cops. Protocol exists for a reason."
Bruce met Frank's gaze calmly, pulling off his sunglasses for emphasis, his gentle eyes deeply sincere. "L-look, if we call this in, SWAT comes. Standoff lasts hours. Men and women d-die—good people on b-both sides. Criminals get l-light sentences, and then they're back, poisoning m-more kids. We have a chance to e-end this now. This fuel tank—it's like God himself p-put it there."
Frank shook his head, sighing deeply. "Bruce, this is crazy."
But Bruce had already opened his car door and stepped out into the cold night, shouldering his decorated rifle, "Happygun," gently but confidently. He turned back one last time toward Frank, quietly apologetic yet resolute.
"I-I'm sorry, Frank. But I-I can't just stand by. W-we promised we'd protect people. Th-this is our chance."
Frank swore under his breath, watching helplessly as Bruce lumbered determinedly across the snowy clearing toward the mansion and the fuel tank. "Goddammit, Bruce," Frank whispered, thumping a gloved hand against the steering wheel in frustration. Yet even as he cursed, loyalty surged within him. He couldn't let Bruce walk into danger alone.
Frank quickly exited the car, quietly popped the trunk, and swiftly geared up—tugging on a ballistic helmet, tightening his tactical vest, grabbing his M4 carbine, and securing extra ammunition. His movements were precise, practiced from years of service. He shut the trunk gently, hurriedly glancing toward Bruce's lumbering form disappearing into the shadows ahead.
Within seconds, Frank was sprinting quietly through the snow, ducking behind a black SUV parked near the mansion's edge. He crouched low, quickly scanning the surroundings for threats, taking up a strategic overwatch position to support Bruce.
He pressed the small radio microphone attached to his tactical vest, whispering urgently: "Bruce, I'm at your six behind the black SUV. Confirm your position."
Silence followed—no response, no static crackle—only the quiet sound of snowflakes settling around him.
Frank felt his heart sink slightly, realization dawning heavily upon him. "Of course you forgot your damn radio again," he muttered, voice tight with frustrated affection. "Damn it, Bruce."
Frank peered around the SUV carefully, eyes locked onto Bruce's massive silhouette moving steadily, awkwardly but determinedly, toward the mansion's dangerously placed fuel tank.
Inside the lodge, the criminals—more than fifty men and women—were passed out from heavy partying, sprawled across couches, floors, and tables in a drug-fueled stupor. Christmas lights blinked cheerfully on the balconies above them, oblivious to the grim reality unfolding just beyond the windows.
Frank tightened his grip on his rifle, tension and anxiety swirling heavily in his gut. He was now committed, trapped between protocol and loyalty, duty and friendship. Bruce had made his choice clear, drawn forward by something Frank could never fully understand—a stubborn, naive idealism. Yet Frank knew he'd never leave him. He never could.
They were in this together, whether Frank liked it or not.
Snow continued to fall silently, gently dusting the chaotic rows of parked luxury cars. The mansion stood deceptively peaceful, its warm lights glowing cheerfully, unaware of the imminent danger approaching its doorstep.
Bruce moved onward, oblivious to Frank's worried curses, Happygun cradled protectively in his huge hands, heart thudding with quiet courage. He moved like a man guided by conviction, unshakably believing that tonight, on Christmas night, he was truly doing the right thing—even if it might cost him everything.
Bruce lumbered quietly toward the fuel tank, his heart hammering in his broad chest, breath fogging gently into the frozen night air. His heavy boots crunched softly through the thin layer of snow, the fuel tank now looming large in front of him, painted a faded industrial red and rusted at its edges. Its bulky shape was impossibly close to the mansion's wooden wall—a fact that Bruce saw as divine providence rather than coincidence.
Taking a deep breath, Bruce tried something he rarely did: he thought of a plan. He reached awkwardly into his hoodie pocket, large fingers fumbling past loose change, lint, and candy wrappers until he found what he sought—several novelty lighters he'd picked up from a convention months earlier. Bruce never smoked—he bought these lighters simply because they looked cool, imagining them as quirky gifts for Frank's kids. Of course, Amber had drained his wallet that day, leaving him short of cash and unable to buy anything else, so he'd been carrying them ever since, somehow feeling braver and cooler with them in his pocket.
Now, Bruce laid them out carefully in his massive palm:
A Darth Vader lighter: "Your Empire Needs YOU" printed boldly, Vader pointing sternly outward.
A Lord of the Rings lighter: Elegant black metal with gold lettering "One Ring to Rule Them All," framing an intricate golden dagger surrounded by Elvish script.
Another Lord of the Rings lighter featuring a fierce depiction of Gandalf defiantly facing the fiery Balrog.
A simpler black-and-white lighter, humorously reading: "Work Hard & Be Nice to People."
Lastly, a polished metal lighter engraved simply with the words, "Light the Way to Your Dreams."
Bruce smiled fondly at the lighters, feeling strangely reassured. Carefully, he placed two of them—the Vader lighter and the "One Ring" lighter—on the frozen ground in strategic positions near the fuel tank, flipping their lids open and igniting their small flames. They burned gently, tiny timers for the grand explosion he envisioned would soon come.
Confident, Bruce moved to the tank's heavy valve, gripping it firmly with both hands and attempting to turn. The valve, rusted and resistant, screeched with a painfully loud metallic groan, echoing ominously into the still night air.
Bruce froze instantly, eyes widening in silent alarm.
From inside the mansion came muffled yelling—one of the gangsters awakened by the noise, shouting angrily: "Hey! Who's messing with my car?!"
"Sh-shit!" Bruce hissed softly, ducking quickly around the mansion's corner, pressing his large frame tightly against the wall. Without hesitation, he reached for the radio on his vest to reassure Frank—but felt only empty fabric. He groaned quietly, realization hitting him.
"D-damn it, no radio again…" Bruce muttered, shaking his head with weary familiarity. "Frank's gonna kill me."
Footsteps crunched toward the mansion's side door. Bruce took a calming breath, quickly recalling all the Assassin's Creed and Hitman gameplay videos he'd watched obsessively on YouTube. With sudden inspiration, he cupped his large hands around his mouth, and from the shadows began making loud, awkward animal noises:
"Moo! M-moo! C-come here, y-you gangster cow! Your mother w-was a hamster!"
His voice echoed oddly into the cold night, and immediately, the footsteps approached rapidly, driven by anger and confusion. Bruce tightened his grip on Happygun, adrenaline surging, as the mansion's side door burst open and the angry gangster emerged.
Bruce stepped from the shadows, raising his rifle—and stopped abruptly, looking down in surprise.
Standing before him was a small man—dwarf-sized, no taller than four-foot-six, with features strikingly similar to Peter Dinklage from Game of Thrones. The dwarf wore a leather jacket far too large, gold chains gleaming ridiculously against his chest, eyes blazing furiously upward at Bruce.
"Who you callin' cow, freak?" the dwarf snapped, reaching quickly for a handgun tucked clumsily into his waistband.
Reacting instinctively, Bruce surged forward, tackling the dwarf to the frozen ground. They wrestled fiercely, the dwarf remarkably strong despite his size. He fought like a true dwarven warrior, snarling and biting into Bruce's hand, teeth sinking painfully into flesh.
"Ow! S-stop!" Bruce yelped instinctively, his pain triggering a sudden powerful defensive swing. His enormous fist connected unintentionally hard against the dwarf's temple. There was a sharp crack, then immediate silence. The dwarf's body went limp beneath him, eyes wide but lifeless, frozen in startled rage.
Bruce stared down in shock, heart hammering violently. "N-no, no… I-I didn't mean…" He shook the dwarf's limp form gently, horror dawning heavily. "W-wake up… p-please."
But the dwarf did not stir. The bitter reality sank into Bruce's chest, sickening and heavy.
At that instant, from inside the mansion came more yelling—someone had heard the scuffle and was approaching the side entrance.
Bruce sat frozen, momentarily paralyzed by guilt and shock, as the door burst open again. Another gangster, tall and wiry, stepped out, gun raised. Before Bruce could even react, a sharp gunshot cracked from the darkness, striking the gangster squarely in the chest, dropping him instantly.
Frank's voice called sharply through the night from behind a parked SUV: "Bruce, move! They're waking up!"
Inside, chaos erupted—shouts of alarm, hurried footsteps, doors slamming open. Bruce scrambled frantically back toward the fuel tank, lunging desperately toward the stubborn valve. He strained once more, wrenching it fiercely, rust grinding loudly as the valve slowly opened, unleashing a gush of pungent gasoline onto the snow-covered ground.
But before Bruce could ignite it, gunfire erupted from the mansion windows, bullets tearing into the frozen earth around him. Bruce dove behind the fuel tank for cover, heart racing wildly as rounds thudded against metal, sparks flickering dangerously close.
Pinned down and exposed, Bruce realized grimly that his plan was spiraling dangerously out of control—his carefully placed lighters burning uselessly on the ground, dwarven blood staining his trembling hand, and now, the full fury of awakened criminals unleashed against them.
Trapped and terrified, Bruce clung to Happygun, breathing raggedly, praying desperately that Frank had a plan, even as more gunfire erupted furiously into the freezing Vermont night.
Bullets cracked fiercely around Bruce, tearing chunks from the ground and peppering the fuel tank with metallic clangs. Bruce crouched low, eyes wide, heart racing with panic and adrenaline, his massive frame pressed against the freezing metal of the tank.
He squeezed Happygun tightly, breathing rapid, terrified breaths. He glanced down at the cheerful stickers on the rifle—Yoda's calm face, fluffy bunnies smiling gently up at him—and whispered softly, urgently:
"H-Happygun… p-please protect me from these b-bad guys. I-I don't want to kill anyone else. I-I didn't kill that dwarf—you did, r-right? Y-you understand."
Bruce took a deep breath, leaning carefully around the edge of the tank, and began firing wildly toward the mansion, bullets flying in messy bursts. He saw one gangster drop, then another, Happygun's power somehow feeling separate from his own shaky hands. Each time someone fell, Bruce whispered a silent apology beneath his breath, assuring himself desperately:
"I-It wasn't me. H-Happygun did it. I-I'm s-sorry…"
Meanwhile, Frank moved swiftly through the shadows, firing disciplined bursts from his M4 carbine as he darted between parked cars, cover to cover, with astonishing speed and precision. Frank's agile movements made him seem almost supernaturally nimble—a fierce little chipmunk darting so quickly the gangsters' bullets whizzed past uselessly, always just a fraction too slow to catch him.
Back at the tank, Bruce reached quickly into his pockets, pulling out the novelty lighters. With trembling hands, he set them carefully onto the snow-covered ground, their tiny flames burning brightly in the darkness. Gasoline continued gushing from the opened valve, soaking into the frozen earth and slowly spreading outward. Bruce prayed silently that the flames would soon ignite the fuel and end this nightmare.
Gunfire intensified, bullets slicing dangerously close, showering sparks against the tank. Bruce knew he had mere seconds to escape before everything exploded in flames. Ten meters away, a row of parked cars offered cover and a possible route to safety in the dense woods beyond. But for a man of Bruce's size and clumsiness, ten meters felt like ten miles, the distance seeming insurmountable amid a hail of bullets.
Bruce's mind flashed suddenly to the graceful gymnast he'd secretly admired for months. Her slender form danced through his memory, performing elegant flips, spins, and impossible stretches with effortless beauty. He saw her clearly—blonde pigtails bouncing cheerfully, bright blue eyes winking playfully beneath her colorful mask. Her body moved like poetry, graceful and confident, adored by cheering crowds. She had something Bruce had never known—true grace, effortless agility, and a beauty that made people cheer rather than cringe.
Bruce's thoughts wandered briefly, fascinated yet bewildered by the gymnast's mysterious curves—the intimidating softness of her chest, those strange, beautiful shapes women used to feed babies, something he'd never quite understood. Why didn't men have that? he wondered briefly, before shaking his head quickly to clear his thoughts.
Amber's voice echoed bitterly through his mind, angry words accusing him of breaking furniture when he'd tried copying the gymnast's moves at home. If only he could move like her now—small, agile, swift—then maybe Amber wouldn't be angry, maybe bullets wouldn't touch him, and maybe he could reach those cars without trouble.
He tightened his grip on Happygun, firing off one final burst toward the mansion. Bullets whizzed past his head, forcing him to duck quickly back behind cover. Bruce waited for the briefest pause in the gunfire—his heartbeat hammering wildly, adrenaline surging through his massive frame.
He whispered quietly, as if the gymnast herself could hear him: "Please… l-let me b-be graceful l-like you, j-just this once. I-I don't wanna d-die clumsy."
And then the pause came—a momentary lull, a split second of silence amid the chaos.
Bruce surged forward, his enormous frame launching into what he desperately imagined to be the graceful flips and spins of the gymnast he admired. He moved with all the subtlety of a freight train, heavy limbs spinning clumsily through the air, crashing awkwardly to the frozen earth. Yet somehow, momentum carried him forward.
Bullets erupted again, angry hornets whizzing around him. One bullet ripped violently across his face, shattering bone, flesh, and cartilage, tearing his nose clean off his face. Blood erupted from the mangled wound, splattering onto the snow beneath him, staining it deep red. Bruce gasped sharply, agony searing through his head, tears blurring his vision.
Yet still, he crawled forward desperately.
Another shot sliced past, shredding the cartilage of his right ear, sending it spinning away into the darkness. Bruce cried out in pain, but kept moving, fueled by sheer, stubborn determination. He stumbled, trying to rise again, only to have another bullet slam brutally into his right knee, nearly severing his leg entirely at the joint. Bruce collapsed heavily, screaming as his massive body crashed onto the snow.
But still—impossibly, desperately—Bruce crawled forward. One hand gripping Happygun, the other clawing fiercely at the frozen ground, pulling himself inch by painful inch toward the row of parked cars.
Behind him, the mansion's gunfire intensified, bullets tearing viciously into his broad back. A final, devastating round struck the base of his spine, shattering vertebrae, leaving him instantly numb and crippled from the waist down. Bruce felt his legs fall completely limp, sensation draining terrifyingly from his body, yet still he pulled himself onward—fingernails clawing desperately through snow and gravel.
Finally, Bruce reached the cars. He dragged his broken, bloody body beneath the nearest vehicle, gasping raggedly for air, vision swimming dangerously. Blood poured from his wounds, pooling darkly beneath him, steam rising softly in the bitter winter air.
Lying broken and dying beneath the car, Bruce stared helplessly toward the mansion. Gunfire erupted furiously as the criminals advanced toward him. In desperation, Bruce raised Happygun, squeezing off ragged bursts, bullets tearing into the legs and feet of his attackers. Several gangsters screamed and collapsed, clutching ruined limbs. Bruce felt a strange, quiet satisfaction through the unbearable pain.
His breath came shallow and slow, consciousness flickering. He glanced weakly down at his ruined body—his right leg grotesquely torn at the knee, hanging loosely by shredded tendons and skin. He reached numbly toward his shattered face, feeling only a horrific emptiness where his nose had been, blood filling his throat, making each breath a drowning struggle. His spine was utterly broken; his legs were dead weight, forever numb.
In that moment, Bruce finally understood—this was the end. He had messed up, maybe fatally. His gaze drifted weakly toward the fuel tank. Gasoline still gushed slowly, trickling steadily toward his carefully placed lighters, their small flames bravely burning in the frozen night, ready to ignite his final act.
Lying there broken and bleeding, Bruce's thoughts drifted softly back through his life, to how he had gotten here.
He thought of his father—violent, angry, corrupt—and how watching him die in that terrible drive-by shooting had awakened something fiercely protective within Bruce, something determined to stop people from ever suffering like he had suffered that night.
He remembered vividly how Frank had appeared like an angel from darkness, saving him, giving him a second chance at life—a life that had been so full, despite everything. Bruce thought of Frank's parents, Richard and Meredith Armstrong, who had opened their home and hearts to him, giving him a family for the first time. He thought fondly of Frank himself, whose fierce loyalty and patient kindness had given Bruce the strength and courage to face life's challenges.
He remembered awkwardly stumbling through school, struggling desperately but somehow graduating. He thought about endless hours playing World of Warcraft and Medieval II: Total War—always terrible at games, yet loving every moment spent in their fantasy worlds. He remembered long road trips with Frank, attempting food challenges across the country, laughing together even through constant failures.
Bruce's thoughts drifted briefly toward Amber—the homeless girl he'd tried so desperately to help, even though she'd taken advantage of his kindness. He didn't regret any of it. At least he'd tried to do something good.
His mind wandered further, remembering Frank's wife, Sarah, and their children—children Bruce still didn't fully understand how Frank had created or even what marriage truly meant. But Frank had found happiness and stability, something Bruce admired deeply, even if he himself had never truly experienced it.
Bruce's eyes slowly filled with tears—not from pain or regret, but from quiet gratitude. His life had been imperfect, difficult, awkward, and often lonely. But it had been real, genuine, filled with small joys, simple kindnesses, and profound loyalty. Frank had given him those gifts, and Bruce felt grateful beyond words.
He blinked slowly, vision fading as gunfire crackled around him. He raised Happygun once more, firing weakly toward the approaching shadows. As his consciousness drifted, Bruce whispered softly, a quiet prayer into the darkness:
"I-I'm sorry, Frank… I-I messed up… b-but I don't regret it. As long as y-you're alive… I-I did okay… right?"
Darkness closed gently around him. He lay still, heart slowly beating, feeling strangely peaceful despite everything. His gaze drifted to the trickling gasoline, inches from the waiting lighters, flames flickering bravely—his final hope, his final act.
Bruce smiled softly, eyes drifting closed, waiting patiently for the end—without regret, at peace with the life he'd led, the choices he'd made, and the friend who had made it all worthwhile.
Bruce lay beneath the battered car, his breath ragged and shallow, vision flickering at the edges. Blood pooled beneath his broken body, staining the frozen earth dark crimson. His fingers trembled weakly around Happygun, his last desperate defense against the oncoming gangsters.
Suddenly, boots crunched hurriedly toward him through the snow. A figure ducked swiftly beneath the car, dropping to his knees at Bruce's side—Frank, eyes wide with fear and urgency, face pale beneath the dirt and grime of battle.
"Bruce! Jesus Christ, Bruce, stay with me!" Frank shouted desperately, reaching down to grab Bruce's torn and bloodied tactical vest.
Bruce blinked weakly, eyes widening in sudden panic. "N-no, Frank! You h-have to get away—r-right now! The f-fuel tank… it'll explode… g-go, please!"
Frank shook his head fiercely, stubbornly refusing. "Never, Bruce! I'm not leaving you! We're partners for life, remember?"
Bruce's eyes filled with anguished tears, his voice breaking as he pleaded urgently. "P-please, Frank! You h-have Sarah… your k-kids… you h-have to leave… I-I'm done… y-you can't stay…"
Frank gritted his teeth, shaking his head again, voice breaking with raw emotion. "No, Bruce! No! I can't—I won't leave you here! I don't care what happens, I won't let you die alone!"
Frank's eyes glistened with tears he fought fiercely to hold back. He would never admit it aloud, but Bruce was everything to him—more precious, more beloved, more deeply cherished than anyone or anything else in this world. More than Sarah, more even than his own children. Bruce was pure innocence, kindness, and loyalty—qualities Frank had never fully known until he'd met Bruce. The thought of losing him was unbearable, impossible. Frank simply couldn't live without that innocence, that pure-hearted joy Bruce embodied.
"Frank… I-I don't understand… y-you have everything… a w-wife, kids… w-why stay?" Bruce whispered weakly, confusion mingling with his fading consciousness.
Frank's voice softened, thick with grief and love. "Because you're my best friend, Bruce. You're the most innocent, pure-hearted man I've ever known. The world doesn't deserve you—but I do. You're my brother. If you go, we go together. I'm not leaving you behind, Bruce. Not ever."
Bruce's eyes filled slowly with gentle tears, heart swelling painfully with gratitude and quiet joy even amid unbearable agony. He nodded weakly, accepting Frank's stubborn devotion, knowing nothing he said would ever convince Frank otherwise.
Together, they raised their weapons one final time, firing desperately toward the approaching criminals, bullets flying in defiance, their bond unwavering even now, in these final, terrifying moments.
And then, the gasoline reached the lighters.
The flames erupted instantly, spreading like liquid fire across the snow-soaked ground, racing toward the fuel tank. Bruce's eyes widened in horror, and Frank saw immediately what was coming.
With desperate instinct, Frank threw himself over Bruce, shielding his best friend's broken body with his own, embracing him tightly as the explosion erupted fiercely. A monstrous fireball blossomed violently outward, consuming everything—the mansion, vehicles, gangsters—all swallowed instantly by roaring flames and deadly shrapnel.
Unknown to either of them, massive stockpiles of ammunition and explosives hidden deep within the mansion ignited, amplifying the devastation. A second, far greater explosion shook the earth, ripping through the structure, obliterating the mansion, gangsters, and vehicles in an enormous blaze of furious destruction.
Frank's body shielded Bruce heroically, desperately protecting him even as both men were consumed by fire and heat. Bruce's eyes remained open just long enough to see Frank's face, gentle despite the flames, eyes full of unspoken love and silent farewell.
In that final instant, Bruce knew he had truly lived—not perfectly, not easily—but fully, deeply, without regret, blessed by a friendship deeper than life itself.
Warm darkness enveloped Bruce, silent and gentle, soothing in ways he'd never felt before. He floated within it, no longer feeling the fire, the pain, or even his broken body. Everything felt safe, warm, quiet—then, suddenly, tightness gripped him. A powerful pressure squeezed, pushing him forward, relentlessly driving him toward a destination unknown.
The darkness gave way to cold air. The warmth vanished abruptly, replaced by the sudden sting of exposure. Bruce gasped instinctively, desperately drawing breath. He was alive again, though smaller, weaker, and confused.
Large, calloused hands caught him immediately, lifting him into the air with surprising gentleness.
"Congratulations, my lord!" announced a woman's joyful voice—the midwife, eyes sparkling with genuine happiness. "You have a healthy baby girl!"
Girl? Bruce thought wildly. Wait, no, no! That can't be right—I'm Bruce! What's going on here? Who's a girl?!
He tried opening his eyes, but they refused to cooperate. He panicked, flailing his tiny arms weakly as he tried to protest.
"W-w-wa—wh-what? N-n-no! I-I'm n-not a g-girl! I-I'm B-Bruce! I—"
But all that emerged from his tiny mouth were strange, malformed baby noises—lisping, stuttering cries:
"G-g-gaaa—baaa—waaah!"
An uncomfortable hush descended upon the room. The joyful midwife's smile faltered instantly, replaced by concerned silence. All eyes turned to the father, a towering figure standing rigidly by the doorway—Duke Leo, broad and powerful, his face shadowed by displeasure. He stared down at the child with cold, calculating eyes, lips twisted in distaste as the baby's malformed babbling grated upon his ears.
"It seems," he sneered quietly, voice dripping with disdain, "this one is defective as well."
The midwife's shoulders sank. She looked away, her gaze lowered respectfully in quiet sadness. Duke Leo's jaw tightened with contempt, and without another word, he turned sharply, cloak swirling behind him as he strode toward the door.
"Another failure," he muttered bitterly, slamming the door shut as he departed, abandoning mother and child in an uncomfortable silence.
The room now felt empty and cold. The mother, barely more than a girl herself, sat upright upon the crude straw-filled bed, trembling from exhaustion and disappointment. Her long blonde hair, damp with sweat, clung to her pale skin; her eyes glistened with unshed tears of grief and loneliness. She reached out slowly, her thin, delicate arms shaking as she accepted the tiny, squirming form from the midwife.
She cradled the small girl carefully against her chest, gently stroking the baby's soft, plump cheek with trembling fingers. Her expression softened, sadness melting into tender warmth as she whispered gently:
"You look just like me," she murmured, her voice soft and trembling. "Then... I suppose I'll name you after me. Lili."
Bruce's eyes finally opened, blurry at first but quickly clearing. He saw her clearly now—young, fragile, exhausted, yet undeniably beautiful in her quiet sorrow. Her soft blue eyes shone with love despite everything, her gentle smile radiating warmth. Bruce wanted desperately to argue, to protest, to shout that his name was Bruce, not Lili—he was a man, a grown man, not a tiny baby girl.
"N-n-no! I-I'm Bruce! B-Bruce, n-not Lili!" he tried to say, but again, only soft babbling emerged: "Ga-ga—baaaah!"
His mother held him tighter, misunderstanding his cries as distress, whispering reassuringly, gently stroking the infant's fine hair.
"Hush now, little Lili," she soothed, her voice a tender melody, "it's alright. I'm here. I'll never leave you, my precious girl."
Bruce squirmed weakly, desperate to protest, to correct her mistake. But the woman—his new mother—misinterpreted his anxious movements as signs of hunger. With gentle, practiced motions, she lowered the neckline of her worn dress, revealing a pale, softly rounded breast, now swollen with milk. She guided Bruce's small head toward it with delicate care, offering nourishment with quiet patience.
Bruce's mind recoiled in confusion and embarrassment. He was Bruce—a grown man, a cop!—not a helpless infant needing milk from a stranger. Yet instinct took hold. His tiny body, driven by primitive hunger and basic survival needs, latched eagerly onto her, drinking deeply despite his bewildered reluctance.
His eyes, wide and uncertain, drifted slowly across his new surroundings. The cottage walls were made from rough logs and tightly packed straw, crudely sealed with mud in places. A stone fireplace stood at one end of the humble room, its uneven stones glowing dimly with faint orange embers, offering warmth that barely kept the chill at bay. Simple wooden furniture—rough stools and a worn table—filled the small space, suggesting poverty and hardship.
Bruce felt a pang of bewildered curiosity. Was he somewhere in Africa, in a remote village? Yet outside the single small window, snow gently drifted down, blanketing the ground in white. Africa didn't have snow, did it? Maybe he was at a medieval reenactment event—some bizarre afterlife scenario, or perhaps this was a primitive, makeshift home like something a homeless person might use for shelter. Like Peter Parker—Spider-Man—living impoverished in those old comics Bruce used to read, always barely scraping by despite his incredible powers. But Bruce had no powers—just confusion, awkwardness, and now this unexpected rebirth as a helpless infant.
His new mother continued to softly rock him as he drank, oblivious to his internal confusion. She hummed a gentle lullaby in an unknown language, her voice sweet yet tinged with deep sadness. Her blue eyes, heavy with exhaustion, gazed lovingly down at him as her slender fingers gently stroked his fine baby hair. Her young face, illuminated faintly by flickering firelight, revealed quiet beauty marred by traces of grief, hardship, and loneliness.
Bruce, despite himself, felt strangely comforted. He didn't want to be here, trapped in this infant body, drinking milk from a strange woman—but she wasn't a stranger to him anymore. He could sense her sadness, her loneliness. She was young and vulnerable, seemingly as lost and afraid as he was.
He realized slowly, perhaps reluctantly, that maybe he wasn't the only one confused and suffering. Maybe she needed someone too, just as he did now. He sighed quietly, relaxing into her embrace, feeling safer and warmer than he had felt in a very long time.
"I-I suppose," he thought wearily, as his consciousness drifted into sleepy acceptance, "this isn't Africa, or a medieval reenactment, or heaven, or even Spider-Man's dumpy apartment… It's just home now—wherever this is."
And so Bruce—now Lili—quietly drank her mother's milk, nestled warmly against the woman's heart. Outside, the snow continued gently falling, blanketing their isolated cottage in silence. Inside, the mother whispered softly, again and again:
"I promise I'll always be here for you, little Lili. No matter what."