The real assassin
CHAPTER—1
We see a man walking through the shadows, a silent presence bound to a guardian that hovered at his back like a living omen. He carried a contract—one written in blood and sealed with fate—to assassinate the President of the United States. The night air was cold, heavy with tension, as he closed in on his target, every step measured, every breath controlled.
Just as he prepared to strike, another contract killer emerged, positioning himself between the assassin and the president. This newcomer radiated resolve, his stance firm, blade raised in defense. For a brief heartbeat, the world seemed to pause—steel humming softly, eyes locked, intent clashing in silence.
Then the hero moved.
In a single, fluid swing of his blade, faster than a gasp of air, he pierced straight through the defender's throat. Warm blood sprayed into the darkness, the sound wet and final. The other contract killer collapsed without even realizing he had been cut, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud as life drained from his eyes.
The hero didn't slow down. His guardian loomed behind him, unmoved, as he stepped past the fallen body and continued toward his true target—his expression calm, as if he had merely cleared an obstacle rather than ended a life.
After the president lay dead, the city fell into stunned silence. Sirens wailed somewhere far behind him, their cries fading as the assassin vanished into the empty streets. His mission was complete. With his guardian drifting calmly at his side, he turned toward home, exhaustion finally seeping into his bones.
He didn't notice the sniper at first.
Miles away, high above the city, another contract killer adjusted his rifle, breath steady, finger resting lightly on the trigger. The crosshairs settled on the assassin's back. The scope glinted faintly under the moonlight as the sniper prepared to fire—
But the shot never came.
In 0.000000001 milliseconds, the world twisted.
A sudden presence appeared behind the sniper, so fast it bent perception itself. Before his mind could register danger, a crushing kick slammed into his spine, sending him crashing into the concrete. The rifle skidded across the rooftop, metal shrieking against stone.
The sniper gasped, terror flooding his eyes as he looked up.
He knew now.
The man he had been sent to kill wasn't just another target—he was the strongest assassin in the world.
Too late.
The hero stood over him, expression utterly calm, eyelids heavy with fatigue. "Finish him," he said quietly to his guardian. "I want to sleep."
As the assassin turned away, his guardian shifted its gaze toward the fallen sniper. The sniper tried to summon his own guardian in desperation, its form flickering into existence beside him.
For a fraction of a second, the two guardians locked eyes.
Then the hero's guardian moved.
There was no clash. No struggle. The mere act of being seen was enough. The sniper and his guardian were erased in an instant—life, presence, and power snuffed out like a candle in a vacuum.
By the time the bodies hit the ground, the assassin was already walking away.
Moments later, he lay at home, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady—sleeping peacefully, as if the night had been nothing more than a passing dream.
The next morning, the assassin placed a call to the man who had given him the contract. The line rang once… twice… then connected.
No apology.
No explanation.
No payment.
The call ended.
Silence hung in the air as realization settled in—he had completed the mission, yet the money never came. His expression didn't change, but something colder stirred beneath the calm. He already knew where the contractor was hiding.
And so, he moved.
Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, his body cut through the morning air like a shadow freed from gravity. Buildings blurred beneath him as wind tore past his ears. In less than two minutes, he reached his destination—a secluded high-rise where fear lived behind locked doors.
The man barely had time to look up before the assassin stood in front of him.
"Where is my money?" the hero asked, his voice flat and emotionless.
The contractor trembled. "I… I don't have it."
The assassin stared at him for a long moment, eyes empty, unreadable. Then he nodded slowly. "That's fine," he said. "If you don't have money, you'll pay with your life."
"Wait!" the man shouted, panic flooding his voice. "I'll give it to you! I swear! Please don't kill me!"
Moments later, trembling hands pushed a case filled with cash across the floor.
The assassin didn't even touch it.
"You're lying," he said softly. "And now…it's too late."
A quiet laugh escaped his lips—low, almost amused.
The man stared at him in horror. "Why… why are you laughing?"
The assassin turned away, his guardian's presence darkening the room. "Because," he replied, "you don't have a future anymore."
He paused at the doorway and added calmly, "Goodbye."
The man never got another chance to beg.