The dead man was in the back of a pickup truck, face down. His name had been JOHNATHAN, but that was back when he was still breathing. His blood had dried into his shirt that spread out from where he had been hit. A hole, big enough to fit a soccer ball took place where his heart should've been. Moments later a black Sedan pulled up behind the parked truck. A bold man exited the car and approached the truck slowly, bidding his time. He was dressed in a black suit, no tie. Seconds later another man appeared from the front of the truck.
He had brown hair, he was wearing a red t-shirt with jeans. GREGORY, was his name. The bald man in black, SAMUEL, surveyed the corpse.
"Well?" Gregory said.
Samuel turned to him. "Good job. As discussed here is your payment."
One of Samuel's body guards stood beside him and gave him a small duffel bag. Samuel took it and gave it to Gregory, who was eyeing the bag eagerly. Gregory opened the duffel bag filled with lots of dollars. He grinned.
"Two million dollars for the assassination of Johnathan Lee," Samuel said.
"No tip?" Gregory asked, still smiling.
Samuel ignored him then beckoned his men to load the body in to the trunk. Seconds later they finished their job. Samuel walked over to the Sedan, where his bodyguard was waiting for him.
"I'll be in touch." He said and got in the vehicle.
The Sedan went straight ahead, Gregory watched it until it disappeared around the corner. He went back into the truck and sighed, replaying his mission in his head. He had been sent to assassinate Johnathan Lee. Gregory had used his unique ability to neutralize his target. There was no emotional attachment to the target; Johnathan was just another job to him. As he sat there in the dimly lit truck, the weight of what he had done felt more like a victory than a burden. Gregory knew that his bank account would soon reflect the success of this mission, and that was all that mattered to him. The taste of iron on his tongue was just a reminder of a job well done.
He brushed those thoughts aside as he started his truck and drove away.
As the clock struck midnight, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the unassuming cloth store in the heart of Brooklyn. The driver, a burly man in a dark suit, stepped out and opened the door for his passenger – a distinguished figure cloaked in a black tailored suit and an air of authority. With a purposeful stride, Samuel entered the cloth store, scanning the racks of vintage garments until his keen eyes landed on the discreet button hidden amongst the fabric. Without hesitation, he pressed it, triggering the concealed door to slide open with a soft hiss. Stepping through, he descended the hidden staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, he was met with the high-tech face scanning device. Standing still, he allowed the device to scan his features, verifying his identity with precision. A green light flashed, signaling his clearance, and the heavy metal door ahead slid open with a mechanical whir.
Entering the inner sanctum of the organization, Samuel found himself in a vast chamber bathed in dim purple light. The walls were lined with monitors displaying surveillance feeds from across the city, tracking movements and activities with meticulous detail. Technicians in dark uniforms worked diligently at their stations, their faces illuminated by the glow of computer screens. As Samuel entered the main office, he was met with a sight that exuded power and authority. The room was spacious and elegantly furnished, with dark wood paneling and plush, deep red carpeting that muffled the sound of footsteps. The walls were adorned with framed vintage espionage memorabilia, including old spy gadgets and weapons, lending an air of history and tradition to the space.
In the center of the room, a large mahogany desk dominated the space, its polished surface gleaming under the soft glow of antique brass lamps. Behind the desk sat the boss, ALBERT FISHERMAN, a formidable figure with a steely gaze and an aura of command. The boss, in his mid-sixties, exuded an air of authority and power that came from decades of experience in the shadowy world of espionage and covert operations. His face was weathered and lined with the marks of a life lived on the edge, but it was his piercing golden eye that drew the most attention. The other eye was covered by an old, faded eyepatch, hinting at a past filled with danger and intrigue. His frame was muscled and imposing, a testament to the physical strength that had helped him rise to the top of the criminal underworld. Tearing the Ocuroes apart with nothing but his bare hands.
What set the boss apart from any other criminal leader was the fact that he was the first person in history to lead a criminal organization consisting of people with supernatural abilities, yet he possessed none himself. He only had physical strength, which some people would like to call it a divine body. Able to withstand great hits and deal twice as much damage. His ability to command and control individuals with extraordinary powers had made him a force to be reckoned with, and his reputation as a master manipulator was legendary. Samuel couldn't help but feel a deep-seated resentment towards the boss. He despised the fact that someone without magic could wield such influence and power over those who possessed them. It felt unjust to Samuel that someone like the boss, who had not earned his position through strength or skill, could command such loyalty and fear from individuals with extraordinary gifts.
"Ahh if it isn't my most trusted associate," Albert began. Smiling his innocent smile, like he'd never done anything bad in his life.
Of course he's not, he killed thousands of people, he was behind the massacre that took place in Hawaii ten years ago. He's the one who'd authorized the use of the Oscuros against mankind. Founder of Nightshade, the number 1 enemy of the States and of the world, Albert Fisherman.
"The bounty has been taken care off," he said.
"Excellent," Albert said. "Any casualties?"
"No, it was done quickly and quietly."
"Good, can't believe the White-clad managed to sneak in one of their own men without us noticing right away."
"I'm as surprised as you are."
"Has any information been leaked?"
"We're not sure sir any traces of contact had been erased by the time the tech group were about to inspect."
Albert muttered a curse then stood up, he was really tall, 7'1 as Samuel guessed. Albert walked over to a shelf that was on the right side of the office. On top of it lay a Katana stand. Albert started staring at it, lost in thought.
"They will probably know that we're running another test for a hybrid," he said at last.
"Probably," Samuel agreed.
"So what do we do now?"
"I'm sorry are you asking me?" there was a hint of shock in Samuel's voice.
"I was hoping you'd have a better solution."
"I don't know sir; I was hoping you'd have one."
"I say go on with the plan."
"Are you sure about this?"
"Yes why not? The test subject showed us promising results."
"As you wish."
"And the kid?"
"Oh, the Triplets failed to neutralize him. He's with the White-clad now."
"Damn it. They'd recruit him there's no doubt about it."
"They will, after all the kid possesses some mighty talents."
"He does, he killed a second class hybrid," Albert chuckled. "I wonder if he or anyone else from the White-clad can handle the next hybrid."
"I don't think they can."
"It'll be unlike anything they've seen before." Albert said, with his one good eye on Samuel.
And Samuel smiled.