After finishing disassembling and packing the rifle into a hidden compartment in my suitcase, I cleaned the room carefully. Then I changed into a formal suit and threw a long coat over it. With the suitcase in hand, I calmly walked out of the seven-star hotel room and made my way to the elevator at the end of the corridor.
When the elevator reached the ground floor and the doors opened, I stepped into the lobby.
All eyes were on the large flat-screen televisions mounted in the corners of the lobby walls. Each screen was broadcasting the same news.
"What happened?" I asked the receptionist behind the front desk, speaking with a thick Eastern accent as I handed over the keycard to my room.
"Our president was shot!" the receptionist replied, stammering slightly. His face was pale—clearly still in shock.
I deliberately opened my mouth in mock surprise, widening my eyes in horror as I turned my attention to the nearest screen.
"…he was just airlifted to the hospital by chopper," the reporter's voice echoed from the speakers. "We still don't have any official update on his condition. No statement yet from presidential aides."
Then the footage replayed—slow motion of the very moment the president was shot. The reporter kept speaking:
"It's clear he was hit in the left chest… Gosh! And he just dropped like a dead man…"
"Mr. Nakamura," the receptionist called from behind me.
"Hai," I answered, turning to him.
"Your checkout is complete," he said.
"Thank you… thank you," I replied, bowing slightly at the waist before dragging my suitcase toward the lobby doors.
-
One month earlier.
"You're out of your mind," I hissed, my eyes still locked on the name printed on the paper.
Sara remained silent.
When I finally looked up, I found her already staring at me—deep, unwavering.
"You do know I'm friends with his daughter, right?" I asked, needing to hear it.
She nodded once. "I know. And she knows," Sara replied solemnly.
I let out a long breath. "Do you really expect me to—"
"I expect nothing," she cut me off. "This is her order."
"What… why…" I exhaled heavily again. "Why him? Just because his daughter is my friend? Just because of me? We're not supposed to target innocent people, right?"
"Royal Knights are," Sara said quietly. "Are you a Royal Knight?" she asked, her voice tinged with unmistakable pity.
I could only return her question with a long, hard stare.
A few moments passed before she spoke again.
"Or are you changing your mind?"
She tilted her head slightly. "You don't have to do this, you know. Not if you decide to come back to the Royal Knights."
I shook my head. "No," I said firmly. "I won't change my mind."
-
I stand among hundreds crowded outside Central Hospital.
They've gathered here to pray for the president—still in critical condition after being shot. A massive screen is set up at the front, reporting minute-by-minute updates from inside the hospital.
"The surgery to remove the bullet from our beloved president has just concluded. Doctors confirm the operation was a success. The bullet was removed from his left chest—only an inch from his heart…"
I frown.
With the sniper rifle the organization gave me, I was more than confident. Two and a half miles? That was nothing. I never miss—not from that distance. Not with that weapon.
Something's wrong.
Before I can process it, motion flanks me from both sides—four muscular men advancing fast, tactically. I pivot and slide through the crowd, slipping between bodies, ducking low and weaving out.
I break away from the crowd and rush toward a blind alley—where I stashed my motorcycle.
But just as I step into the alley, I freeze.
I feel it.
The cold steel of a gun muzzle presses against the back of my head.
"Just follow me," a voice hisses. "No one gets hurt."
Of course, I don't obey.
I tilt my head sharply to avoid the shot, and in the same motion, slam my elbow into his solar plexus. He grunts and stumbles backward—just as the other four reach me.
They pounce.
A full-on fight erupts. I block, duck, strike, twist. The alley echoes with grunts and thuds—boots on gravel, fists on flesh. I use everything I know: offensive counters, joint locks, pressure points.
But it's five against one.
And they're trained.
It takes everything I have to drop them—one by one—until finally, panting, bruised, and scraped, I stagger to my feet.
That's when I hear footsteps.
Deliberate. Familiar.
"You really are a great assassin, Score," says a voice that makes me freeze mid-breath.
I look up. Thief.
She walks toward me.
"Thief… I'm sorry," is all I can manage. I lower my head. I can't bring myself to look into her eyes—to face the anger and heartbreak I know are waiting there.
"Are you really?" she snaps. "If you were, you could've let these pathetic idiots beat the crap out of you."
She kicks one of her groaning bodyguards. "Get up! All of you!"
One by one, they rise—unsteady but obedient.
"Beat him," she orders flatly.
The men hesitate, exchanging unsure glances.
"You heard me!" she barks. "Beat him up!"
Then she looks at me—glaring. "He won't fight back. Will you, Score?"
I swallow hard. Then nod.
With that signal, one of the men steps forward and slams a fist into my gut. The blow doubles me over. I collapse.
Two of them lift me up, pinning my arms while the others take turns. Punches to my ribs, kicks to my thighs, jabs to my jaw. Over and over.
My vision blurs.
Blood drips from my nose. From my mouth. My body—already battered from the earlier fight—can't take much more. I don't know how many hits I've taken. I've stopped counting.
I'm barely conscious when I hear her voice again.
"Stop."
The blows cease.
Silence falls.
"I thought we were friends, Score," Thief says quietly. Her voice is soft—but soaked in disappointment.
"I was forced to…" I manage, barely able to speak.
"I know you were," she says bitterly. "If you weren't, you wouldn't have warned me… right?"
I say nothing.
"What, do you want thanks for the heads-up?" she asks mockingly, lips curling into a bitter smirk.
"Jen… and my baby… they're both in critical—"
"So is my father. At least that's what the public believes."
"They… the organization promised to save them. If I agreed to do one mission…"
"Which was killing my father!" she snaps.
I nod slowly, shame burning deeper than the bruises.
"I'm sorry… I had no choice. They're my family."
"And my father is mine!" she shouts, her voice breaking with pain.
She takes a shaky breath.
"And that man you shot… he was just a stunt double, Score. You said you don't kill innocents."
I stay silent.
"Oh, but what did I expect? You also promised not to hurt your friends' families."
That one cuts the deepest.
I wince, eyes clenched shut, the guilt unbearable.
"I'm sorry…" I whisper again, right as she signals her men.
They resume the beating.
I don't fight. I don't even cry out.
Eventually, it ends.
I feel my body being dragged across gravel, then thrown against the corner wall of the alley like discarded trash.
With one eye barely open, I see her approaching. She crouches beside me.
"The only reason I didn't report you," she hisses, "is because you saved my sister from that predator."
She rises slowly.
"But we're no longer friends, Score. It ends here."
She turns and walks away.
"…Thief…" I croak.
She stops, but doesn't turn.
"I didn't send you the warning message," I manage, my voice dry, cracked.
She turns her head slightly, frowning.
"It wasn't me," I whisper.
Thief says nothing. She turns her head back and walks on.
"Thief!" I force every ounce of strength into my voice. "There's someone… someone in your father's circle… from the organization…"
Whether she hears me or not, I can't tell.
She doesn't look back.
She just disappears into the shadows… leaving me broken in the alley.
Alone.