Rain has a sound.
Not the kind they capture in movies—the delicate patter against windows, the comforting rhythm on rooftops. No. Real rain—the kind that sticks to your skin, crawls under your clothes, and blurs cities into indistinct smears—has a different voice. It is hisses. Whispers. Drowns.
It pushes everything else into the background until all that remains is silence inside your own head. That's what I crave. The hush before work. The moment the city forgets itself.
That's when I move.
I watched the building from across the street, standing still in a pool of shadow cast by a broken streetlamp. My coat clung to me, soaked at the shoulders. Drops slid down my cheekbones like tears I couldn't remember how to shed.
Fifth floor.
Corner unit.
Curtains drawn.
But not all the way.
There's always a sliver of arrogance left open.
A thin vertical scar of light cutting into the dark.
He thought no one could reach him up there. He was wrong. People always think that elevation means safety. That if you rise high enough, the weight of your sins can't climb after you. But sins have long legs.
And I have longer memory.
I leaned against the cold brick and let the street breathe around me. The city pulsed quietly in the distance—distant sirens, the occasional gust of wind, the rhythm of tires slicing through rain-slick streets.
I reached into my pocket and lit a cigarette. The spark from the lighter was brief and warm. A flash of defiance in the dark. I don't smoke for the nicotine. I never did. I smoke for the ritual. The inhale, the pause, the exhale. It reminds me that I still have lungs. That I still choose when to breathe. Three deep pulls. That's all. Then I crushed the cigarette beneath my heel.
Time to move.
---
The building had one of those polished façades—marble veneer, gold-trimmed doors, security camera domes in every corner. But underneath? It was no different than the rest of the city.
Rot hiding under the shine. The kind of place that sells the illusion of safety to those who can afford to lie to themselves. I walked through the lobby like I belonged. The doorman didn't look up. Middle-aged, shoulders slumped, attention buried in the glow of his phone. He didn't see me pass him.
Good.
People don't notice what they aren't trained to see.
The elevator chimed open. The interior smelled like metal and citrus. Someone had tried to mask an old rust with synthetic lemon. It didn't work. I stood still inside, watching my reflection multiply in mirrored panels. My eyes met themselves. Still. Sharp. A kind of silence lives there. Not the absence of feeling. But the burial of it. The containment. There was a time I used to flinch in mirrors. Not anymore. Now I just watch. Fifth floor.
Ding.
The hallway greeted me with heavy carpet and dim lights. The smell of lavender-scented cleaner hung thick, almost cloying. Beneath it—something older.
Dust.
Disuse.
Decay.
Room 503.
I stood in front of the door and listened. Silence. The kind that didn't breathe back. I knelt, fingers were already moving. Tools slid from my sleeve into my hand. Cold metal comfort. The lock was old—worn, familiar. I could hear its fatigue.
Click.
The door opened.
---
Inside was darkness—clean, curated darkness. No clutter. No mess. Just carefully arranged emptiness. I closed the door behind me and stood for a moment, letting my eyes adjust. The apartment was perfect.
Granite counters gleamed under a trace of moonlight. Every piece of furniture aligned just so. Like someone trying to prove they were in control. That's always the tell. Control is just a dressed-up version of fear.
A chair sat in the center of the living room, facing a tall window. One curtain slightly open.
He was there.
He didn't move.
I stepped silently closer. The floor didn't creak. My heartbeat didn't rise. My breath didn't change. I am the moment before the noise.
---
"I was wondering how long it would take," he said without turning.
His voice was calm. Almost bored.
I didn't respond.
He took a sip from the glass in his hand—whiskey, by the smell. The other glass on the table sat untouched. The ice in it had melted hours ago.
"I always thought I'd run," he continued. "Or fight. But when the call came… I just sat down."
Now he turned to look at me.
He was older than the file suggested. Gray at the temples. Hollowed cheeks. Eyes like someone who'd seen too much of his own truth.
"I wanted to see what kind of "The Ghost" they'd send."
I stepped into the light. Didn't speak. He smiled faintly.
"They weren't lying."
He stared at me like he was trying to remember something. Or maybe forget it.
"You're here to kill me?"
"Yes."
"Will it be quick?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He turned back toward the window.
"I was a bastard. I know that. I won't waste your time asking why."
I didn't lift the gun yet.
"I hurt people," he said. "The kind that don't get second chances. Women. Kids. Sold lives like they were assets. I thought I was untouchable."
He paused.
"You're what comes for men like me."
He was right.
I raised the gun.
His shoulders didn't flinch.
"Do it."
One shot. Low hiss. No echo.
He slumped forward, mouth open slightly, glass rolling from his fingers and shattering on the polished floor.
I watched. Not out of respect. Not out of guilt. Out of habit. Because every time someone dies, I look to see if it changes me.
But it never does.
---
The silence after death is different. Thicker. As the air knows it must hold something heavier. I stayed for one minute. Then two. Let the silence wrap around me. Let the stillness remind me why I do what I do.
It's not about justice.
It's not about revenge.
It's about balance.
If someone's going to profit off pain, they should pay for it.
And I'm the one who collects.
---
I left the apartment with no sound. No trace. Elevator down. The lobby is still empty.
Rain waiting outside like it never stopped.
I lit another cigarette. This time, I held it longer. Let the smoke curl around my face like a veil.
The city was still bleeding neon across the wet streets. Red. White. Gold. My shadow stretched long behind me.
That's when the phone buzzed. I didn't check the screen. I didn't need to. I answered. No words. Only breath. Then…
"Martyna."
My name. My real name. Not the one in the files. Not the one people forget. The one no one should know. My hand tightened around the phone. I said nothing.
"There's been a change," the voice said.
Smooth. Measured. Not afraid.
"You're not done tonight."
Still, I said nothing.
"They asked for you. By name."
Click. The line went dead.
And just like that…
Everything changed.
I stood still in the rain.
The cigarette burned low in my fingers.
---
Martyna.
I hadn't heard that name in years. Not since the day I buried her. Not since I tore that version of myself apart, bone by bone, until nothing remained but silence and precision. That name was supposed to be dead.
But the past doesn't stay buried. Not when it reminds me how you screamed. Not when it has teeth. And someone just used mine.