The night was quiet, almost unnervingly so.
A man leaned against the doorpost inside his home, half lost in thought, when the sudden crash of breaking glass outside shattered the silence.
The porch light flickered once and died.
He frowned, grabbed a torch, and stepped carefully out the front door.
The beam cut through the dark, landing on the shattered bulb. Embedded inside the metal frame was a knife, its blade glinting coldly in the weak light.
His stomach sank.
Before he could even turn his head, another knife hissed out of the shadows. It sank deep into his throat.
He collapsed, choking on his own blood, the torch rolling from his hand.
The front door creaked wider.
A figure slipped inside.
In the bathroom, a young boy was bathing, steam clouding the mirror. He froze when a hand pressed a knife to his throat from behind.
"Shhh…" whispered a voice, sharp and cruel.
Terror broke his will. He screamed.
The sound was silenced in an instant, the blade slashed across his neck, spraying the walls red. His body was shoved into the bathtub, crimson water swirling around him.
The scream carried through the house.
The father, lounging in the sitting room, shot upright. He seized a machete and stepped into the corridor.
At the far end, half-hidden in shadow, a girl stood still as stone. Her clothes were black, her eyes colder than steel.
An assassin.
He raised his weapon. "Bold of you to come alone," he said, voice tight with fury.
She did not answer.
His grip tightened. "We can talk. You don't have to die tonight. I have the will…"
A whisper of steel cut him off. He spun just in time to see a second assassin step from the dark. Her sword flashed.
He fought, but their blades rained on him in a merciless storm, knives tearing flesh, swords slicing deep.
His machete clattered to the floor.
Bleeding out on the cold ground, he gasped, choking, "Mercy…"
But the only answer was a final strike, plunging him into silence.