A few months have passed since the warehouse job. My name is becoming known, and with it, the attention of higher-ups. The boss calls me in, a new mission on the table, a new target.
This time it's personal.
A former associate of ours, a man who once shared the same bloodstained path I walk, has betrayed us. He's selling information, working both sides for a fat payout. The syndicate can't allow that. But they don't trust anyone else to deal with him.
They send me.
I track him to a back-alley bar in the slums, a place where the air tastes like stale smoke and desperation. The patrons are no different from the city itself—scraps, discarded, surviving one day at a time.
Inside, it's dim, the only light coming from neon signs that flicker and buzz. I slide through the crowd, unnoticed, the faintest rustle of fabric my only sign of movement. My target sits at the bar, alone, sipping a drink like nothing's wrong. Like he doesn't know death is already knocking on his door.
I walk up behind him, my steps measured, every movement calculated.
He doesn't flinch when I speak his name. Doesn't even acknowledge me. But I know he knows. We all know the game. He's just playing for time.
"Did you think you could run?" I ask, my voice a low growl.
He finally turns, eyes widening when he sees who's standing in front of him. There's no surprise in his face—only a cold realization.
"Just business," he says, trying to sound calm. But I can hear the tremor in his voice.
I'm not here for explanations.
Without warning, I grab him by the throat, squeezing until he gasps. He tries to fight, but it's too late. I let him struggle for a few moments, then slam his face into the bar. The glass shatters, and blood mixes with the alcohol.
"I'm not here to listen to excuses," I say as I twist the knife in my hand. "I'm here to make sure you never do this again."
I press the blade into his side, slow, careful, watching the life drain from his eyes. A man like him never saw the end coming. That's how it always is.
I finish the job quickly, too efficiently. There's no emotion in it, just cold precision.
As I leave the bar, the patrons stare, but they don't move. They know better. This is the underworld. Power is everything. And I have plenty of it.