(Short)
The city didn't sleep—it bled.
And I was always there to watch it die a little more.
Tonight, my target was a corrupt arms dealer, deep in the industrial district. Not high-profile, not emotional. Just another file from The Syndicate, my handler's voice still echoing in my ear.
"Clean kill. No noise. No mess. Leave the scene colder than you found it."
I moved through shadows like a wraith—long coat, boots silent, blade tucked beneath her thigh. Guns were too loud. Too impersonal. I liked her kills close.
Inside the warehouse, my target laughed over brandy and secrets with men who wouldn't live to see the next sunrise. I waited. One minute. Two. Eyes cold. Breathing steady.
Then I moved.
Three men died in under ten seconds—one by blade, one by garrote, one by sheer panic as he tried to run. The arms dealer reached for his gun.
Too slow.
My blade kissed his throat like a lover's whisper.
"Why—why are you doing this?" he choked, gurgling.
I leaned in, emotionless. "Because they told me to."
And just like that, he collapsed.
Blood pooled at my boots. I didn't flinch. Death had stopped smelling like anything a long time ago.
Back at in apartment—sterile, silent, safe—i lit a cigarette and stared at the city lights.
I was good at this. Too good
But lately, something gnawed at me—something I wouldn't name.
I never asked questions. Never looked into eyes. Never cared.
I didn't drink after a kill. I didn't party. I didn't journal my sins like some of the rookies i trained beside. I let the silence settle inside me like a stone, sinking deeper each time.
The apartment was temporary—like every other part of my life. One chair. One bed. One drawer. No photos. No names. No anchors.
Just me. And the blade.
I exhaled smoke into the dark and picked up my phone.
One text.
From Cipher, my handler.
> Target neutralized. Good work.
> Standby. New contract incoming within 72h.
> Level 6 clearance. No digital trace. Prepare offline.
My lips tightened. Level 6 meant high-value, high-risk. Government-adjacent. Possibly international. I'd done them before—but they always left a stain.
I shut off the phone and slid it into a signal-proof pouch. A quiet unease settled in my gut. Not fear. I didn't believe in fear. Just...pressure.
I undressed, unstrapped the knife from my thigh, and stood in front of the mirror. Blood on my collarbone. A smear on my jaw. My reflection looked back with hollow eyes.
Not empty—controlled.
I scrubbed the blood off like I'd been taught. Always clean. Always invisible.
But tonight, i lingered in front of the mirror just a second longer.
Then came the whisper.
Not from outside. Not from my phone.
From somewhere inside my own mind.
"They're watching you now, too."
K shook it off. Paranoia was part of the job.
Still…i didn't sleep that night.
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