In an underground club somewhere in Chicago, Gambol leaned forward as the encrypted chat went dead. The glow from his monitor lit up the long scar across his cheek.He clicked his tongue, muttering under his breath. "Man, whoever dropped that commission got no idea what kinda heat they just lit up."
One of his men glanced over from across the room. "What happened, boss?"
Gambol stood slowly, straightening his suit jacket. "Someone put a price on a Morozova. Two hundred million."
He gave a dry laugh and shook his head. "Two hundred mil to die first. That's what it is."
He stared at the blank screen, thoughtful now, the humor gone. The name stirred a memory—men who made the Joker look small-time, people you didn't even mention in the same breath.
"Tell the crew," Gambol said finally. "We don't touch this one. Not for that money, not for any money."
Across the Atlantic, Cassian sat alone in a quiet hotel suite in Rome, sharpening a combat knife on a whetstone. The blade flashed under the dim lamplight.His phone buzzed once. A secure alert. He checked it, expression unreadable.
The assignment feed showed the same name: Aleksander Morozova. Then it vanished—wiped clean like it was never sent.
Cassian paused mid-motion. He wiped the knife, set it aside, and leaned back. His eyes narrowed, calculating. He'd heard that name before—in whispered briefings and half-remembered debts that reached far beyond the Continental.He took a slow breath, his voice low when he finally spoke. "Looks like someone just put themselves on the wrong list."
He stood, holstered the knife, and slid on his jacket, calm as a man brushing off dust. The world had its own code. Contracts came and went. But some names?
They weren't contracts. They were warnings.
The Task Crew weren't legends or high level hit group —not yet. But they were fast on their way. Word on the street was they moved like a unit, ex-military precision, ambush hits clean and surgical. No witnesses. No traces. Every job had built their names a little higher. And now, they thought they'd found the jackpot.
Jan sat at the center of the room, laptop glow lighting his white contact lens. "Two hundred million, boys. This is the one. The big one."
Carlos leaned against a locker, arms crossed. "You sure it's not bait? Feels too easy."
Jan flashed that half-mad smile."Everything's bait if you're scared enough. We're not scared, right?"
Moggy tossed a magazine into his rifle. "Not scared. Just not stupid."
Elvis leaned back in his chair, calm, voice carrying that smooth confidence. "Relax. We've done tougher hits. Taliban bunkers, convoy traps—hell, this is just a name on a screen."
Boy Sweat Dave let out an uncertain laugh. "Yeah, but every time someone says 'just a name,' we almost end up in a body bag."
Jan ignored him, moving to the whiteboard where maps and blueprints were pinned. "We do what we do best—ambush, precision, extraction. Whoever this Morozova clown is, he won't even have time to know we're coming."
Mike glanced up from his gear, quiet but firm. "I still say we don't know enough."
Jan didn't look back. "Then learn fast."
As the crew checked their weapons, the tension settled into something dangerous—greed masking ignorance. None of them saw what the others already knew.On every encrypted network, from London to Mexico City, more seasoned killers had logged off.The Task Crew hadn't seen the warning—they were already too busy preparing the hit.
The Continental's lounge glowed in soft amber light, jazz humming low beneath the murmur of expensive silence. Winston stood near the grand window, his posture impeccable as ever, glass of scotch balanced delicately in one hand.
Across from him sat Victoria Winslow—with the kind of composure that only decades of surviving the world's dirtiest business could give. In her mid-60s, she still carried herself like royalty—the kind that wore heels instead of crowns and could end a life without smudging her lipstick.
Her pale blonde bob framed sharp, calculating blue eyes. Every gesture was measured, each word graceful but layered with quiet menace. She spoke softly, smiled easily, and killed cleanly.There was nothing desperate about her age—it had refined her. The world saw an elegant retiree. The underworld remembered a legend who never missed.
Even at rest, she looked dangerous, the kind of woman who smiled before she pulled the trigger.
Beside her, Han Cho Bai leaned back on the velvet couch, dark eyes cautious but sharp, reading the room the way only a trained killer could.
Han glanced toward Winston, his tone even but edged. "Is that who I think it is?"
Winston gave a small, knowing smile. "Indeed. The Morozova heir. It appears someone rather ambitious—or rather foolish—is seeking a death wish."
Han straightened slightly. "What makes them so dangerous? The name's mentioned like a ghost story."
Victoria's lips curved in a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "That's because it is one."
Winston turned toward her, amused by the understatement. "She's correct, as usual. Years ago, the High Table authorized a hit on a man named Grigori Morozova. The records described him as an outcast. A recluse with shadow summoning abilities—and holder of an information network that spanned continents. But there was multiple warnings by individuals to not authorize this hit."
Winston took a sip of scotch before continuing, voice calm and deliberate. "He survived. The Council members who ignored the warnings did not. Each was found within days, in separate cities, their deaths methodical and brutal. On every body, the same message: 'Do not cross the Morozovas.' "
Han's composure faltered for a brief second. "That's why the Table changed its rules."
"Precisely," Winston said, eyes narrowing slightly. "They decided to become… neutral facilitators. Hits placed through the Table are now the responsibility of the contractor alone. Ancient self-preservation dressed as policy."
Victoria set down her glass, her voice soft but measured. "So what's the plan?"
Winston glanced out the tall window toward the New York skyline. "The High Table will not intervene directly, but they will send a courtesy." .
He looked back at her, smile thin. "The Morozovas will be informed who ordered the contract—and encouraged to respond accordingly."
Han exhaled quietly, half a laugh, half disbelief. "Courtesy? That's your word for handing someone their execution notice."
Winston's eyes glimmered with old-world amusement. "Semantics, Mr. Bai. In this business, manners are often the difference between survival and extinction."
Victoria rose gracefully, straightening her coat. "Well," she said with that disarming charm of hers, "I suppose we'd better buy popcorn. It's about to get very… educational."
Inside the Morozova family mansion, Ilya Morozova stood by the grand window when his phone buzzed. The call was from the Wolf."The hit's confirmed, Aleksander's been targeted," the Wolf said.
Ilya's lips curved slightly. "Thank you for letting me know, my friend. I'll make sure you're rewarded for this."
The Wolf chuckled softly on the other end. "No need, señor. My family owes you too much already."
Ilya shook his head as he ended the call. Moments later, another notification lit up his phone—first a call from Tangerine, then a message from the High Table. Both carried the same news: confirmation of the contract and the identity behind it.
The name listed was Marilyn Thornhill. But according to the note attached, that identity was nothing more than a mask.
[A/N:Guess who these killers are?]