Betrayal From The Same Hand, The Eyes Of The God Behind The Red Dot
It all started in Afghanistan.
The vast expanse of desert stretches as far as the eye can see, broken only by barren stone hills and the ruins of old buildings that have long since lost their inhabitants. The wind carried dust and sand flakes that bit the skin, while the heat of the day blended with the smell of metal and fuel from military vehicles parked far behind their positions.
Levi lay flat on a mound of sand, wearing a camouflage uniform full of dust. In his hand, a perfectly manicured M110 shotgun pointed straight down—right at a clay-colored house standing quietly in the valley. Beside him, Sergeant Miller, his trusted scout, continued to monitor the direction of the wind, humidity, and calculate distances with small equipment in his hands.
"The distance is two hundred meters. Southeasterly wind, three knots. Fixed elevation. Are you ready, Levi?" whispered Miller without turning his head.
Levi did not answer. His eyes remained glued to the optical circle of the rifle. In it, their group of colleagues began to enter the courtyard of the house. Two U.S. army pick-ups came to a slow halt, dropping off twelve soldiers complete with rifles and combat gear. They are not aggressive—on the contrary, they pretend to be calm, friendly, like coming for a peace negotiation.
That was the plan from the beginning. Fake negotiations, diversion scenarios to lure the main target out of hiding. A leader of a local militant group, suspected of being a key link in the illicit route of smuggling firearms and rockets from Russia. Intelligence calls it the "Point of Contact" ,a person who never gets too close to a battle, but moves everything from behind.
And that night, Levi was the judge.
Miller whispered again, "The gate is open. There are three people out... The middle one, it seems, is the leader. Check your face, Levi."
Levi rotated his optics slightly, adjusting the focus. The face of the man in the middle—neatly bearded, wearing a light robe, and his movements were calm, almost too calm.
"Positive. That's it," Levi muttered.
His heart was beating, but stable. His fingers pressed the trigger slowly, as if playing the last note of a long symphony.
Then...
The red dot appeared, almost invisible in the silence of time.
One second.
One breath.
One bullet pierced the man's chest.
His body staggered for a moment before falling to the ground, and the world instantly shattered. Shouts, the eruption of weapons, the hiss of bullets, and the rising dust formed a small cloud of war. Levi's colleagues were immediately involved in a shootout. The negotiations turned into a bloody ambush.
But Levi didn't move from his position. He kept watching, making sure no one escaped.
Down there, blood flowed, but that wasn't what kept Levi from sleeping the nights after. Not the leader's corpse, not the sound of gunfire... but when a small door beside the house opened, and from within appeared two little children—about eight and ten years old—running to their father's body.
Levi was silent. His fingers hardened in the rifle. Miller cursed softly, "Their fanaticism is crazy... Even children were taken to the negotiating site."
But Levi knew. It is not fanaticism. It's their home. It's their life.
And that night, a single bullet turned it into a never-ending story.
Apparently, beyond Levi's expectations, the plan didn't work out as he had imagined. He thought the main target he had executed was the end of the mission. That disguising himself as a negotiator is just a way to isolate the figure who is the main link of the illegal arms route. But what happened was the opposite.
Once the leader fell, the army entourage from Levi's unit did not retreat. There was no evacuation warning. There is no troop withdrawal. Instead—they moved forward, with the barrel of the gun pointing into the house. Screams began to be heard from inside. Shot after shot stomped through the air like a sledgehammer on a war drum.
Levi zoomed in on the view through the optics of the rifle. He saw one of the soldiers kick the back door, then fired a bullet blindly into a room that was clearly not a battlefield. Someone ran out of the window—a woman in house clothes, clutching a baby in her arms.
One shot.
The woman fell. The baby was thrown and rolled over on the dusty ground. Not moving.
"... Miller," Levi whispered. But his voice did not come out as a request. It's more like a prayer stuck in the esophagus. "What are they doing..."
Miller looked glued, just as confused. "This... is not part of the command."
Levi held his breath, his teeth clenched tightly until he almost bluffed. He knew the initial command. He knows the rules of engagement. And he knows very well that all this has gone far astray. This is not enemy hunting. It's a cleansing. It's a massacre.
Then the communication radio in Levi's ear sounded—the commander's voice from the rear headquarters sounded clearly, "Alpha Five, safe position. Send the coordinates for the air purification. The target house should be removed completely. There should be no evidence left. Repeat, there should be no evidence."
Levi turned to Miller, his eyes burning angrily but cold.
"Their plan... From the beginning, it is not just about finishing the target," he muttered.
"This is a clean trap. They want the house to be flat, everything in it to disappear, including the innocent," Miller continued in a flat voice.
And in the distance, the roar of fighter engines began to be heard—more and more clear. Levi knew it wasn't an ordinary sound. It was a death call from the sky. He stared at the house which was now partly burning, partly covered in blood. He saw bodies scattered, children who would never understand why their lives were taken away just like that.
He could only be silent. I can't do anything. Not because of fear. But because of one wrong step, he will also be targeted. At that moment he realized—his unit had changed. This is no longer a mission. This is a heinous justification for the desire to erase traces and bury the truth with the bodies that were burned alive.
One rocket fell from the sky. Its explosion shook the earth like the screams of hell.
Smoke soared. The house was gone, turning into a black crater with burning red embers on the edges. No one can be saved. There is nothing left. The truth burns along with the bones of the victims who never know why they had to die.
Levi stared at the fire from behind his binoculars. His jaw hardened. Cold.
He knew that night was not the end of the mission. But the beginning of something bigger.
Something he kept tightly in his chest—a plan to end all this, from within.
In a way that only someone like him understands.
A shadow.
A hunter.
A person who has seen a red dot... and choose to be one.
The convoy moved slowly under the clouds that began to dim, heading northwest of where the evacuation point was located. Dust billowed behind the two pick-up cars that had lost consciousness inside. The laughter of the soldiers rang faintly from the rear cabin—the laughter of victory, the satisfied laughter of the operation they considered successful.
But not for Levi.
In the front seat of the car at the very back, Levi sat silently, his face expressionless, his gaze straight ahead. In his jacket pocket, an old Nokia phone was tightly hidden—old, rough, and almost unnoticed by anyone. But that thing is the end of his long rope of patience. Secretly connected to two burner cell phone units that he had planted long before the mission began, each was tied to a simple circuit under the seats of two pick-up cars that were now driving in front of him.
Everything has been planned. Cold. Inspect. Without mercy.
Levi opened a communication channel.
"Commando, here is Levi. There was something strange at the next corner point. There seems to be tire traces and inconsistent heat on the sand surface. There may be traps. Ask permission to check with a scout."
The command replied quickly. "Approved. Check carefully. Report every move."
Levi turned off the radio and turned to Miller in the chair next to him. "We go first. Walk."
Miller nodded, not suspecting anything. They dismounted, walking a few meters away from the convoy, towards a small hill. And when the distance is far enough, when the two cars are already stationary in the middle of an arid road without protection... Levi stopped.
His hands reached into his deep pockets. He stared at the old cell phone in his hand.
There is no prayer. There are no regrets. Just one thought: justice will not come from controlled military courts, but from fire and ashes.
His thumb pressed the green button.
BOOOM.
The first explosion shook the earth like the shock of the god of war. Fireballs soared from the first car, throwing bodies into the air like broken dolls. A moment later, a second explosion followed. The second car exploded like a gas cylinder being thrown into hell. The sound of metal screeching, burning, breaking, burning again. Everything in it is gone. Burnt. Destroyed. No residue.
Miller collapsed due to the pressure of the shock wave. He turned his head and stunned.
"Levi... WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" he shouted with widened eyes, incredulous.
Levi just stood silent, not answering. His gaze was blank staring at the flames and the pitch black smoke that rose into the twilight sky.
"You... kill them all... They are our team!" Miller trembled, his hand slowly reaching for the weapon.
Levi turned around slowly, without anger, without hesitation. "They are not our team. They are pests that wear our uniforms to slaughter civilians. They are not worthy of being called soldiers."
Miller takes one step, two steps... "We can report this... We can bring evidence... Levi..."
Levi looked at him with cold eyes. "There is no evidence. No one will believe it. And you're too honest to keep a secret of this magnitude."
The shot was silent.
One bullet, right in Miller's chest. He staggered, then fell into the hot sand. His eyes open, his lips shivered as if he wanted to say something... But no sound came out.
Levi approached slowly. He squatted down on the side of the body for a while, staring at his companion's face. "Sorry, Miller... I wish there was another way."
Then he stood up, adjusted his breathing, and with his own hands, he thrust the metal fragments from the rest of the explosion into his own thigh. Blood is pouring. The pain is excruciating, but necessary. To make the story believable.
He bit his lip, then shouted as loud as he could. "THE SQUAD IN SERANG... WE WERE AMBUSHED... I AM THE ONLY ONE WHO SURVIVES... GOD... GOD..."
The radio in his chest screamed with a voice from the headquarters.
Levi fell to the ground, covered in blood—half fake, half real.
The sky began to darken above him, and the flames from the burning car bounced off his eyeballs.
It's all over. For now.
It has been one year since Levi officially left the military world. He lives quietly—in a small villa on a quiet lakeside outside of Los Angeles. The classic-style wooden house stood facing the water, surrounded by pine trees and the morning mist descended slowly like uninvited bad news. Here, there is no sound of gunfire. There is no command radio. Only the sound of night crickets and the familiar morning birds accompanied him.
That day, the sun hung lazily over the lake. Levi sat at the end of his small pier, wearing a shabby flannel shirt and simple trousers. His left hand was grasping the fishing rod, while his right hand was holding a cup of hot coffee whose aroma mixed with dew. On a small table, an old radio plays the morning broadcast from the local station.
"... Finance Minister William Cardell has finally been sentenced for a state tax corruption case of 89 million dollars. The court sentenced him to 2 years in prison without fine or seizure of assets..."
Levi was silent. His eyes remained fixed on the surface of the water, but his mind drifted far back—to a time he had long buried in the deepest corners of his memory.
The face of an old woman appeared in his mind. The figure of an aunt—the only family that ever loved her unconditionally. When Levi was a child and was abandoned by his parents, it was his aunt who took care of him. Living poor, tired, but still smiling every morning. They live in cramped apartments on the outskirts of the city. Aunt opened a small stall, selling bread and warm soup. But when the crisis came, the business was destroyed.
And one afternoon, with a hungry stomach and tears drying up, the aunt was forced to steal a loaf of bread from a large store.
He was caught.
Levi remembers that day clearly. He waited outside the courtroom, his legs shivering, his hands holding a broken doll. The judge decided: 10 years in prison and a fine of $5,000 USD.
All were silent. But Levi remembered his aunt's face. Not fear. Not angry. But confused... Why for a loaf of bread, the world can't understand.
And five days later, a letter came from the prison warden. Just one sheet: Auntie died of a heart attack.
Levi was only a child at that time. But the wound was too deep for the time to heal.
Now, years later, he sits by the lake, a big fish floundering in a bucket, while the radio still voices an unjust world.
Corruptors who steal hundreds of millions of money... only two years in prison. No fines. Without losing anything.
While someone like her aunt... Losing everything just because of a piece of bread.
Levi put down the coffee cup. His hands trembled, not because it was cold—but because something that had been buried for a long time was now rising again. Old grudges. Pain that never heals.
He stared at the lake. The water is calm. But his mind was not.
"Justice on the bills... can only be redeemed by bullets."
And bullets...
It is still easy to find.
The old iron door beside the villa opened slowly, the hinges creaking softly as if complaining after a long time of not being touched. A staircase descends underground, dark and dusty. Levi stepped in, turning on the old switch on the wall. A dim yellow light lit up—flickering once before stabilizing, illuminating a hidden room that he had built himself with a hand full of wounds and years of patience.
There, the weapons were neatly arranged. The wooden walls covered with metal plates are filled with long barrels, automatic pistols, ammunition racks, assembly tools, optical cleaners, and assembled explosives stored in steel safes. No one knows this place. No one was invited. This is the personal altar of a former war ghost.
Levi picked up an old wooden tray. On top of it, a perfectly assembled long-barreled rifle—long, heavy, with a sound suppression and a long-range scope that he modified himself. Every bolt, every gap, is assembled by hand. This is no ordinary rifle. It is a work of art. A more precise killing machine than any measuring instrument.
He took the rifle out of the house, up a small hill only half a kilometer from his villa. Breeze blows. The afternoon sky was cloudy. At the end of the horizon, there was one large tree standing alone, deep in the middle of the open field.
Levi lay on the ground, positioning the rifle carefully. He took a deep breath, then adjusted the scope calmly. In his pocket, there were only three bullets. That's enough. Or too much, if you know how to shoot like him.
The first shots are fired.
Braaakk—
The sound of the explosion was muted, yet it still had echoes in the calm air. The bullet flew off, hitting the ground not far from the tree. Miss. But it is not a mistake. That's calibration.
Levi resets the scope. Turn the numbers on the dial, calculate the wind direction, air humidity, slight pull from gravity. He is not in a hurry. He was never in a hurry.
Second shot.
Braaakk—
The bullet hit closer. The soil is scattered just below the trunk of the tree. Almost touching the target. Too long range, even for a modern military-grade rifle. But Levi wasn't just a shooter. It is a blend of machines and intuition.
One bullet remained.
He took a deep breath. Hold it.
The red dot on the scope now stops moving.
Then, the last shot was fired.
Braaakk—
Pause. Quiet. The seconds are running slowly.
Then the leaves of the tree shook A small hole appeared in the middle of a log that had remained motionless for decades. Penetrated. Perfect.
Levi slowly got up, approaching the tree. Step by step through the pasture, walking silently and deeply. And when he remeasured the distance...
3,943 meters.
More than 3.9 kilometers.
World record—not for the show. Not for the race. It will never be recorded. It will never be announced. No medals, no flags were raised.
But this is not for that. This is a message.
The message is that if evil is protected by power, then justice will come from a distance beyond the reach of the law.
From behind the long barrel.
From a shadow.
And from behind the red dot.
The night dropped a thin mist on the surface of the lake, and the light of the lamps from inside Levi's villa reflected off the window like a restrained flame. In his cramped workspace, there was only one monitor screen, one old laptop with no camera, and a signal scanner that cut off all digital tracker connections. Levi sat there, his body calm, but his mind lit up like a fire burning slowly but surely.
He opened a social media platform—not with his real identity, of course. His account is not linked to any name, number, or data trace. Just rows of random numbers and letters, hidden under dozens of layers of protection. It dives into the hashtags that are rising: #JusticeForPeople, #KorupsiBukanKecelakaan, #HukumanRinganLagi.
The topic is hot. The country is boiling over by blatantly broadcast injustice. The people are ready to take to the streets.
And in the midst of the uproar, Levi saw an opportunity.
He wrote in short, calm, cold sentences, like an executioner drafting a will:
"If the law only gives minor injuries to major criminals, then bullets will make a hole in the right place. Punishment can be ignored by the judge. But bullets... no."
The post only appeared for two minutes. Then it was deleted. But enough time to be copied, viewed, distributed by algorithms that no matter who the sender is.
He did not mention names. It does not mention the location. But everyone knows who the threat is aimed at.
The next morning, Levi sat on the dock as usual, fishing while listening to the radio. But today, the news does not bring change. There was no presidential statement. There was no reaction from the authorities. There was no strengthening of punishment.
The minister was still given a light sentence.
Two years.
No fines.
Without guilt.
And the people... only silent, divided by false hopes, by new promises that again swept away their anger like a small wave in a vast lake.
Levi stood up slowly from his bench. He walked into the house, opening an iron safe on the floor of his living room. Inside, lay his assembled rifle. Cold. Death. Perfect.
His hands moved slowly, as if he was closing an old book that no longer needed words. He picked up one bullet, checked the metal casing, and then put it in the rifle bullet chamber.
Click.
There was no anger in his eyes. Just calmness.
Justice has been given a chance.
But the world chooses to remain deaf.
Now... bullets will speak.