The room was dark, lit only by the pale glow of dozens of surveillance monitors stacked across the wall like an altar of flickering eyes. The hum of machinery filled the silence, low and constant. Shadows clung to the corners, and the faint scent of stale coffee lingered.
The three interviewers stood behind the seated officer, their faces grim and cold, their silhouettes sharp against the screens' bluish light.
"Rewind," said the middle-aged man, his arms crossed, voice low and hard.
"Yes, sir," the officer replied, fingers dancing over the keys. The footage jumped backward—blurs of movement stuttering in reverse.
The feed paused.
There they were—the candidates. Dozens of them, seated on the long benches lining the hallway. The timestamp showed only thirty minutes prior. The corridor was clean. Bright. Alive.
Some candidates were hunched over, staring at the floor, lost in thought. Others whispered quietly in pairs, tension thick in their voices. One man leaned against the wall, arms crossed, judging the rest with narrowed eyes. A woman adjusted her gloves repeatedly, her foot tapping an anxious rhythm.
A few chuckled at something. Another paced back and forth. One candidate muttered something to the officer on duty.
Then, movement. The far end of the hall.
The camera caught him.
Vakh.
He walked with the easy, careless stride of someone who belonged in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn't care. Hands in his pockets. White sneakers untouched by the dust. His black, middle-parted hair barely swayed with his steps.
As he passed the others, every conversation stopped.
Those who sat grew rigid. Those who spoke fell into silence. Even the ones who had ignored everyone else shifted uncomfortably—sensing something.
Something off.
Vakh didn't look at anyone. He didn't need to.
He stopped at the end of the bench, turned, and leaned against the wall. Calm. Still. Not a hint of nervousness.
Then the lights in the hallway flickered once.
Just once.
The footage continued to roll.
But what happened next... would make them pause again.
"Are you guys applying for the assassin job as well?" Vakh asked, his voice casual as he leaned against the cold wall.
A tall man sitting on the bench across from him snorted. "Heh, I thought you were here for a social media specialist job or something. Maybe IT—what with how you're dressed."
The others chuckled.
"Hahaha, today was laundry day," Vakh said, grinning. His white sneakers tapped lightly on the floor, carefree. "Gotta work with what you've got."
Just then, the double doors at the far end creaked open. An officer stepped through—tall, broad, wearing a black uniform and mirrored shades that made it impossible to see his eyes.
"It seems like you're all here," the officer said flatly. "The interviewer will be with you shortly. Please wait patiently."
As he turned to leave, Vakh raised his hand, halfway as if to ask something. But the officer ignored him, stepped out, and the heavy doors shut with a hollow thud.
Vakh's brow twitched.
From somewhere down the bench, a low snicker escaped someone's throat. Then another followed. Quiet laughter rippled among the candidates—amused, mocking.
Vakh smiled at the floor. Then looked up, his emerald eyes glinting.
"You know," he began, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt, "I have a crazy idea—if anyone's into it."
No one replied. Some gave half-interested glances. One man cracked his knuckles.
He didn't wait.
"Since we're all mercs, ex-soldiers, hitmen, or whatever flavor of killer-for-hire fits you…" he let the sentence hang for a beat, "...and since we're all applying for one assassin job... well, there is one guaranteed way to prove you're qualified."
A pause.
He smiled wider.
"At least, that's what I think."
Silence crept into the corridor like fog.
"Worth a thought, no?"
His gaze scanned the crowd. Half amused. Half inviting.
And for the first time, no one laughed.
Not a single one.
It started with a quiet click—the sound of a hidden blade sliding free from a leather sheath.
A woman seated near the middle of the bench stood abruptly. Her hand, once daintily tucked into her purse, now gripped a gleaming knife. In a single fluid motion, she slit the throat of the man sitting beside her. His eyes widened in shock as blood gurgled up from the wound, splattering across her blouse.
"Here we go," Vakh muttered, arms still crossed as he leaned casually against the wall, watching it all unfold with unsettling calm.
Panic didn't come first—violence did.
Someone across the hallway lunged, tackling the woman to the ground, only for a third candidate to seize the opportunity, stabbing the attacker in the side with a hidden shiv.
In seconds, the air filled with grunts, screams, and the sickening sound of metal tearing flesh. One man drew twin daggers from his boots and spun like a dancer, slashing a nearby woman across the face before flipping the blade and driving it into another man's gut.
A firebomb disguised as a water bottle exploded in the corner, engulfing two in flames.
The hallway became a cage of chaos.
Blood smeared the once-clean floor tiles. Bodies fell one after another, screams echoing as limbs were broken, necks snapped, weapons improvised from pens, belts, and even bare hands.
A bald brute smashed someone's head against the wall repeatedly until the skull caved in. Another tried to crawl away, only to be dragged back by the ankles and finished off with a blade to the spine.
And yet—Vakh never moved.
Not even as someone sprinted toward him with a roar, a rusted axe raised overhead. Vakh tilted his head. His foot shot out once—swift, clean. The attacker's knee shattered with a crunch, and he crumpled like a dropped puppet. Vakh stepped aside as the man collapsed at his feet, writhing.
"You rushed the wrong guy," Vakh said flatly, wiping a fleck of blood from his cheek with his sleeve.
In the heart of the bloodbath, while others screamed, bled, and died in blind panic, Vakh stood untouched—his white sneakers somehow still pristine.
A man with brass knuckles lunged at him, rage blazing in his eyes. Vakh sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. A sharp crack echoed as the man's arm bent the wrong way, and a swift elbow to the neck silenced him permanently.
Someone else tried their luck from behind.
Without even turning fully, Vakh grabbed the attacker's arm, spun him forward, and shoved him face-first into the wall. A sickening smear of blood followed the slump to the floor.
And then, in the midst of it all, Vakh paused.
His emerald eyes turned—not to another attacker—but to the black bubble of a security camera tucked into the hallway's upper corner.
He smiled.
Calm. Slow. Deliberate.
As if greeting an old friend.
He even gave a small nod, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear, like an actor taking a bow at the end of a performance.
( You watching this? ) the smile seemed to say.
Then, without breaking stride, he walked through the mess—past corpses, blood trails, and twitching limbs—like a man taking a casual stroll after a long meeting.
"Come in!" the voice of the middle-aged man rang out from the speakers.
The hallway footage halted just as Vakh pushed open the double doors, vanishing from view.
Silence hung thick in the dark CCTV room. The glow of the monitors cast pale reflections on the faces of the three interviewers. Blood still glistened on the paused screen—bodies strewn like discarded dolls.
The middle-aged man reached into his blazer, pulled out a sleek phone, and dialed a number. He set it on the table and switched it to loudspeaker.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Then, the line clicked.
"Hellooo~" came Vakh's voice, playful and maddeningly casual.
"You're hired," said the middle-aged man flatly.
"You are reaching Vakh's phone," the voice continued. "If you're looking for a good time and hot yourself, share me your gram. No gay stuff though."
The three stared at the phone in disbelief.
"This motherfucker…" the middle-aged man muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Then, Vakh's voice added with a light laugh, "Just kidding. I'll be there tomorrow."
Click.
The line went dead.
For a moment, the room was silent again—except for the low hum of the monitors and the buzz of a dying fly near the light.
"...He's going to be a problem," the lady said, lighting another cigarette.
"Or a solution," the old man whispered, eyes still locked on the paused footage.
---
On the other side of the city, the glow from a flickering ceiling bulb lit the grimy corners of a concrete room. Peeling wallpaper, cracked tiles, and the faint smell of rust and mildew clung to the air. Yet amidst the filth, everything was... oddly tidy.
Vakh put down his phone on a chipped table. Dressed in a fitted black tank top, his lean, muscled frame glistened slightly from sweat. He rolled his neck, vertebrae popping.
"I have to kill to get a job," he muttered, smirking at the absurdity. "Damn... welcome to the dystopian era, I guess."
Behind him, a muffled grunt broke the silence.
Tied to a steel chair, a man in a slick leather jacket struggled weakly—his mouth gagged with a towel, his hair matted with sweat and blood. His expensive watch dangled loose on one wrist, now bound in thick rope. His eyes were wide, pleading.
Vakh turned slowly, picked up a sleek pistol with a silencer already fixed on. He checked the mag, cocked it once, then walked over.
"I'll be leaving this dump by tomorrow," he said, raising the pistol—resting the cold muzzle gently on the man's forehead.
"HMMM-MMH!!" the man screamed into the towel.
Vakh crouched beside him, green eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Some political figure you are. Backed by the military. Protected by the police. You walk around like a god—raping little girls as if they were your toys."
He pulled out several crumpled photos and threw them at the man's face.
One fluttered across his cheek and landed on his lap—an image of a terrified, bruised child. The man's pupils shrunk, face frozen in terror.
"I happen to know one of them," Vakh whispered.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then Vakh stood and pulled something small from his pocket. A coin.
The smallest denomination possible: One Cred.
He let it fall with a clink onto the man's lap.
"But I'm a freelancer and she paid in full," he added, taking three steps back. His expression unreadable. His posture relaxed.
And then—
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
Twelve suppressed shots rang out, nearly silent. Eleven struck muscle and joints—calculated to wound, to break, but not kill.
The twelfth, however, went clean through the man's neck
The man let out a guttural, wet scream through the towel, convulsing in the chair.
Vakh turned his back on the mess and grabbed his jacket from the hanger by the door. "Consider that a receipt," he said, walking out into the night, leaving behind the stench of blood and the sound of sobbing agony.