The first job outside the city feels different. It's quieter. The air is thick with the scent of oil, damp earth, and gunpowder. The targets—three men, former associates of a rival syndicate—are holed up in a rundown warehouse, hidden away from the city's watchful eye. They don't know who's coming for them. They never do.
I'm not the one with the plan—there's always someone else for that. But when it comes to executing it, that's my role. The boss knows what I'm capable of: clean, efficient, silent.
I slip through the shadows, moving with the ease of someone who's lived in the dark for far too long. The others? They'll make noise, distract, draw attention. Me? I'll be the ghost. I always am.
Inside, the men are relaxed. Comfortable in their temporary haven, oblivious to the deadly presence lurking just beyond their reach. Their arrogance is their undoing. I can see it in their posture, the way they sit, the way they speak too loudly for the situation. They don't expect the strike to come from within their own walls.
I draw my knife slowly, the steel cold against my fingers. The edge gleams faintly in the dim light, and I run it across my palm, savoring the familiar sharpness. It's almost like home—this moment, the quiet before the chaos.
My target is the leader. The one who betrayed us. He's sitting at a table, playing cards, his back to me. The others are too engrossed in the game to notice.
I close the distance in a blur, my steps silent, calculated. I'm a predator—always one step ahead. The blade is at his throat before he even has time to turn around.
A flash of fear crosses his eyes, but it's too late. I don't hesitate. A quick flick of the wrist, and the job is done. He slumps forward, a thin stream of blood pooling around his face, staining the table. His associates don't even know what hit them.
I move on instinct, dispatching them with the same ruthless efficiency. The second guy gets a swift punch to the throat, followed by a clean shot to the chest. The third is harder—he's armed. But I've learned how to deal with that. I grab his arm as he reaches for his gun, twist it, and drive the blade into his ribs.
Before I know it, it's over. The silence settles back over the warehouse. My pulse beats steadily in my ears as I wipe the blood from my hands. The job's done, and I've earned my pay.
But something's different this time. I can feel the weight of the kill deeper than usual. Maybe it's the blood that coats my skin, the faces of the men I've just ended flashing behind my eyes. I shake it off. This is who I am now.
The others are long gone, leaving the warehouse like they always do—without a trace. No one will ever know I was here. The syndicate owns the streets, but I own the shadows.