Chapter 4: The First Mission: Kill the Boss part 1
The mansion was breathtaking—an ethereal kind of beauty that almost didn't seem real. The garden outside was perfectly manicured, every hedge trimmed to precision, the trees aligned in symmetrical grace as if shaped by obsession rather than care. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, carried by a soft breeze that made the leaves shimmer under the pale moonlight.
The marble steps glistened faintly, reflecting the golden glow from the chandelier spilling through the open doors. It was the kind of place that whispered of wealth, control, and secrets—beautiful on the surface, but unsettlingly perfect.
Even the silence felt rehearsed.
Guards were everywhere.
Some stood in plain sight, their dark suits blending with the marble and shadows. Others were ghosts—hidden among the trees, behind tinted windows, or watching from the balconies above. You could feelthem more than you could see them.
The security of the place was suffocatingly tight, the kind that screamed no one gets in or out without permission. Even the air felt heavy with surveillance—every step, every breath, every flicker of movement was being watched.
Laser sensors lined the entryway; cameras blinked faintly under the soft glow of the garden lamps. Whoever owned this mansion didn't just have money—they had paranoia, power, and the resources to guard both.
They perch in the canopy like two birds of different temperaments.
Vionne has the binoculars pressed to her face, breath shallow, every muscle coiled. Below them the mansion sprawls—lamps glittering, guards like beetles moving in slow, ordered patrols.
Kirika lies flat along a thick branch, a silhouette against the moon. Her left foot swings lazily in the air; her hands are folded under her head like a child on holiday. Vionne is more contained, sitting upright, jacket cinched into an improvised harness. The tree sways, leaves whisper, and the city noise is a distant hum.
"So how do we get past all that security?" Vionne asks, voice low, the binoculars painting the scene in black and white.
Kirika squints up at the stars for a second, then shrugs as if deciding between two desserts. "Kill all of them?" she says, perfectly deadpan.
Vionne's face says the rest—equal parts disbelief and alarm. She lets out a soft curse: "Putain." It's a breath more than a word, an exhalation of exasperation.
Kirika chuckles, the sound almost childish. "Je rigole… mostly." She pads a fingertip along the pocket watch at her throat, then taps the map tucked into her sleeve. "Listen. There are always ways in: camera blind spots, guard rotations, and internal staff entrances. We don't storm the gates. We make the mansion think we were always supposed to be there."
Vionne lowers the binoculars a fraction, eyes narrowing. "You plan on strolling through the front door then?"
"No." Kirika flips onto her stomach and points toward a narrow service path between the west hedge and the river. "We go through the back where the heat sensors are older. A quiet team at the east wing—one or two guards—distracted at the right time. We make a hole, one man at a time. Clean and surgical. No fireworks."
Vionne exhales, a careful sound that might be relief or resignation. "One man at a time," she repeats, tasting the plan. "And if one of them notices us?"
"Then we adapt," Kirika says simply, swinging her feet once more. "But first—don't panic. And try not to insult the host before the job starts." Her smile is wicked and small.
''So what is our mission exactly? '' Vionne ask.
Kirika sits up and hangs down her legs and crosses them, then swings them like a kid, with her two palms holding the tree branch, and she nonchalantly stares at Vionne, which becomes their habit, like a lot of words to say but holding back, then she smiles and speaks, "I already told you, kill them all."
And Kirika jumped off the tree, and before she hit the ground, she used the shawl as a parachute and landed smoothly on the ground. Vionne followed with her jacket.
"You know I don't kill people," Vionne said firmly as she landed beside Kirika. Her eyes flicked toward the mansion's glowing windows. "There has to be another way to handle this."
"Then don't kill anyone," Kirika replied calmly, as if the choice were simple. "I'll handle the kill. You get the file."
Vionne hesitated, her chest tightening at the thought of the hundreds of people inside—the guards, the workers, the family. "But—"
"A mission is a mission." Kirika's voice held no trace of doubt or remorse.
Before Vionne could respond, a sudden burst of gunfire echoed from inside the mansion. They exchanged a sharp glance, and without another word, they ran—silent and focused, every step synchronized. Someone else was already inside, and if they didn't move fast, the file would be gone.
They reached the side entrance Kirika had planned, but the guards were already on alert. Two men were fired immediately. Vionne dove to the side, shooting one guard in both legs. Kirika's bullet split the air and struck the other cleanly in the head.
More guards poured in. Vionne fired to disable—arms, legs, shoulders—never vital points. Kirika didn't hesitate; every pull of her trigger ended a life. They moved like dancers in a deadly waltz, bullets cutting the air around them—Vionne graceful but reluctant, Kirika ruthless and precise.
When the last echo faded, smoke hung heavy in the air. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled Vionne's lungs. Both women stood on opposite sides of the room, breathing hard, eyes locked.
Kirika tilted her head slightly. "Fifty-six."
Vionne frowned, wiping sweat from her brow. "What?"
"We've taken down thirty-six here," Kirika said evenly. "I heard twenty more shots from the west side. That means there are forty-four left on this floor… and about fifty upstairs."
"How do you even—" Vionne began, but her words were cut off.
In an instant, Kirika's eyes narrowed. She lunged forward and kicked Vionne hard in the chest, knocking her to the ground just as a kitchen knife whistled past where her head had been a heartbeat earlier.
A gunshot followed, so close it grazed the floor beside Vionne's cheek. She froze, breath sharp and shallow, trying to process what just happened. Kirika was already crouched low, guns drawn, scanning the shadows.
"Move!" she hissed.
Vionne forced herself to roll aside as another bullet shattered the mirror behind her. The mission had just changed—someone else was inside, and they weren't here for mercy.
But this killer wasn't shooting at random. Every shot was aimed at her. Another bullet sliced through the air, and Kirika reacted instantly—firing a counter-shot that struck the bullet mid-flight, sparking in the darkness.
The attacker shifted position, fast and silent. Vionne tried to track the movement, but her eyes couldn't keep up. Kirika, however, moved like she could read the air itself. Footsteps echoed from the corridor—getting closer. Vionne steadied her aim, trusting Kirika's reflexes more than her own. Their survival depended on it.
Then chaos erupted.
A group of men in black suits burst in, unleashing a storm of bullets from AK-47s and M16s. The mansion roared with noise—glass exploding, walls splintering, marble floors cracking beneath the barrage. Kirika darted between pillars with inhuman precision, returning fire in short, perfect bursts. Each shot found its mark.
Vionne took cover behind a fallen column as concrete debris rained down. Dust choked the air, turning the room into a gray haze. The sound was deafening—metal clashing, bullets whistling, bodies dropping. Through it all, Kirika moved with lethal calm, calculating every step, every shot.
The mission no longer felt like a mission—it was survival.
And in that moment, Vionne realized something chilling: whoever these men were, they weren't guarding the file.
They were after her.
Vionne's eyes stung from the smoke, too fragile to see clearly, but she forced herself to focus through the haze. Through the faint blur of gunfire flashes, she caught sight of Kirika—her eyes were closed. Every pull of her trigger hit its mark.
Then Vionne realized something.
"Putain… is she counting while killing?" she whispered, disbelief slipping from her lips.
She wanted to help, but her vision was failing. She could only fire at the shadows that came too close, trusting her instincts more than her sight. Above the gunfire, she suddenly heard another round of shots—but this time, from upstairs.
"The file…" she breathed.
Without another thought, Vionne turned and sprinted toward the staircase. "Kirika! I'm going upstairs—cover me!" she shouted.
"No!" Kirika's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and warning—but Vionne didn't listen.
Halfway up the stairs, pain tore through her right arm. "Ahhh!" she cried out as a blade sank deep into her flesh. Her gun slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor.
She spun around, clutching her wound, and froze when she saw the figure before her—calm, smiling, and licking the blood from the dagger.
"Hello, savior," the stranger said softly.
Vionne's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened in horror. It was the kid from the café.
The child's smirk deepened. "Your blood tastes good."