Most of the time, when a body slams into the hood or gets rolled under my wheels, I feel bad.
Bad about a job well done.
That is the first thing you need to understand. It is not an accident. It is an assignment. The cracking bones, the blood, the occasional muffled scream are just unpleasant details.
People like to imagine that killing someone with a truck is chaotic, emotional, loud. They think of panic, guilt, trembling hands on the steering wheel. Maybe that fantasy comforts them. It makes the act feel more human.
In truth, it is none of those things.
It is a procedure. You wait. You accelerate. And you do not look back. Looking back is for amateurs who prefer collecting nightmares instead of bonuses.
I had already completed two deliveries that week. One on a rainy Tuesday morning, another behind a supermarket whose security cameras had been broken for years. The Agency liked places like that. Areas where the world itself seemed to look away, so another one could open its gates.
The third delivery took place at night. It almost always did.
The candidate stood at the traffic light, eyes fixed on his phone, a faint smirk on his lips. Maybe he was watching a funny reel. Maybe he was reading a message from someone who still cared. All that mattered was that this would be the last time he ever smirked. At least in this lifetime.
The briefing lay on the passenger seat, clipped neatly into a gray folder that smelled of disinfectant and toner. The Agency valued clean paperwork, even when nothing else was clean.
Candidate Profile
Name: HAYASHIA Satoshi
Age: 23
Occupation: Student
Social Resonance: low
Primary Traits: resentment, ambition, prolonged dissatisfaction
Narrative Potential: high
Hero Probability: 61%
Villain Probability: 39%
I skimmed the page again while the light remained red.
They always listed loneliness like a medical diagnosis. After years on the job, I had noticed a pattern: the casualties of this world tended to become the chosen ones of the next. What they were ultimately chosen for, and which path they would walk… well, I suppose being run over by a truck grants you a certain autonomy you might not have had before.
A small photo was attached to the file. Bad lighting. A stiff, practiced smile with tired eyes. The look of someone who existed in frustration instead of actually living.
"High resentment," I murmured thoughtfully. "That usually goes in two directions."
The light turned green.
The candidate stepped off the curb without looking up from his screen.
My dashboard came to life.
Candidate confirmed.
Timing optimal.
Execution authorized.
I pulled my cap lower over my face and exhaled slowly. For a brief, impractical moment, I wondered what would have become of him if the Agency had not put him on its list. Most likely, he would have ended up on Sniper-kun's instead. That would have been more stylish. Painless. Faster.
Then I stepped on the gas.
The impact is not the moment people imagine. There is nothing cinematic about it. Just weight, resistance, and a brief silence in which the world seems to hesitate.
Then the transfer begins.
Light tears open the air like a poorly stitched wound. Wind rushes in, pulls the body away, and reality corrects itself with professional indifference. When it is over, there is no blood on the street, no body, no proof that anything meaningful has happened.
When I drove on, the crosswalk was empty again.
No one talks about that part.
I parked two blocks away and shut off the engine. My phone vibrated in my pocket.
A final message appeared on the display.
Delivery successful.
World assignment pending.
I stared at the words longer than necessary.
"World assignment pending," I repeated.
Not again…