The man, clad in full tactical gear that appeared like a dark, matte shell under the dim light, did not lower his weapon.
He kept the muzzle of his suppressed firearm pointed directly at Caesar's lifeless form, his posture steady and professional.
He was like a machine, devoid of hesitation. He waited for several heartbeats, his eyes scanning for any sign of a lingering breath or a reflexive twitch. In this world, death was often a deceptive curtain, and he had been trained to ensure it was fully drawn.
Satisfied with the stillness, he moved.
Slowly and with practiced ease. He jumped to the floor, landing with a soft, muffled thud that barely disturbed the stuff that was scattered across the room.
Every movement he made was fluid, the result of years of rigorous drill and real-world application.
He approached the bed, the smell of fresh iron...the scent of Caesar's blood...filling the confined space.
The assassin reached out with a gloved hand. He carefully touched the blood-covered arm of the corpse, his fingers searching for the carotid artery. He remained in that position, frozen like a statue, checking for a pulse.
One second passed. Then ten. Then thirty.
He held Caesar's arm for a full minute, ensuring that not even the faintest flicker of life remained in the body.
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of the mechanical clock in the hallway.
Finally, he let go.
Caesar's arm fell back toward the mattress. It hit the blood-soaked bedsheet with a heavy, wet smash...a sound that echoed with the finality of a closing tomb.
The limb lay limp and awkward, a discarded tool no longer capable of movement.
The man in tactical gear stood up straight, his gaze remaining cold and indifferent.
The man in the tactical suit reached back and holstered his firearm against his back, his movements economical and devoid of any wasted energy.
He didn't immediately begin a frantic search. Instead, he stood perfectly still for a moment, his head turning slowly as he surveyed the surroundings.
His gaze lingered on the broken furniture and the scattered books, his eyes scanning for any detail that felt out of place.
He moved toward the wall opposite the bed... the very same wall Caesar had touched only moments before.
Crouching down, his gloved fingers traced the surface of the plaster until they found the hidden indentation at the bottom corner. He applied a firm, steady pressure.
Crk!
Once again, the amazing transformation occurred.
The wall groaned, its structure shifting and folding with a rhythmic mechanical sound that seemed too ancient for a modern apartment. The barrier tore apart, revealing the entrance to the dark, yawning path.
From the depths of the passage, a faint, flickering orange glow emerged. It was the light of the fire, dancing in the distance as it caught the small drafts of air circulating through the room.
The man reached back and brought his firearm to his hands once more. His grip was firm, his finger resting just outside the trigger guard.
He began to descend, his boots making no sound on the stairs as he took slow and cautious steps.
He entered the basement.
The chamber was exactly as it had been: a circular space filled with old relics and mysterious paintings. The atmosphere was thick and heavy, saturated with a medieval aura that felt completely detached from the mundane, modern world above.
To a common person, it would feel like stepping back centuries in time.
The intruder's eyes quickly caught the small table situated in the very center of the room.
Resting upon it was the chessboard. It was crowded with ivory and ebony pieces, but a glance revealed a glaring imbalance. The black side was missing more than half of its original army.
To be precise, only eight pawns were seated in the black section.
The core of the army was gone; there was no king to lead, no queen to strike, and no bishops or knights to provide support. There were only eight lowly pawns, standing like silent sentinels in a lost battle.
The man did not rush forward. He began to move in a slow circle around the table, his eyes never leaving the board. He was checking for hidden triggers, pressure plates, or any mystical traps that might be guarding the artifacts.
After ensuring the area was secure, he stood straight. He raised his left hand, pressing a finger against a small device nestled in his ear.
"The target has been eliminated," he said. His voice was flat and detached, carrying no more emotion than a report on the weather. "And the goods are in my hand."
"Roger that."
A female voice crackled through the earpiece. Unlike the man's icy detachment, she sounded strangely excited, her tone vibrating with a hidden energy.
"Also, Number 7, retreat immediately after securing the items," she added. Her voice was eager, hurried, as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting for a long-anticipated event to finally unfold.
"Understood."
Seven replied flatly. He didn't offer a second more of his breath to the conversation and cut the line with a sharp click.
He remained standing in the center of the circular basement for a long moment.
He took a slow, deep breath, the orange firelight reflecting off his matte-black visor.
Perhaps he was contemplating the weight of the relics he had just claimed, or perhaps he was reflecting on the nature of his own existence in a world of shadows.
Or perhaps, he was thinking of nothing at all.
With mechanical efficiency, he reached for a specialized bag he had been carrying.
He began to systematically dismantle the display, dumping the heavy wooden board and every single chess piece into the bag. He worked with a cold focus, leaving the table bare and the room stripped of its purpose.
Once the task was finished, he ascended the stairs. He moved back through the bedroom, his gaze passing over the lifeless, blood-drenched body of Caesar without a hint of remorse.
He exited the apartment as quietly as a ghost, vanishing into the night.
Swiftly and silently, he began to leap across the rooftops of the city.
Under the pale, silver light of the moon, he was nothing more than a flickering shadow dancing over the skyline.
Meanwhile, back in the silence of the apartment.
Caesar's room was still. His body, which had been declared dead by a professional only minutes ago, remained sprawled across the bed.
The crimson pool on the white sheets had begun to cool, turning into a dark, sticky map of a finished life.
Then, the impossible happened.
The air around the bed seemed to hum with an invisible, distorted frequency.
The fractured bone of Caesar's skull began to knit itself back together with a series of wet, rhythmic clicks.
The eye socket, which had been completely obliterated into a ruin of gore, began to reconstruct itself.
Muscle, nerve, and skin wove back together in a bizarre and phenomenal display of biological defiance.
In the midst of this grotesque miracle, a deformed lead bullet was slowly pushed out of the center of Caesar's forehead.
A hand reached up. With a casual, fluid motion, Caesar's fingers caught the bullet before it could fall.
He was completely alive.
A smile began to spread across his face... a vicious, predatory grin that didn't seem to fit his features at all.
It was a smile so filled with ancient malice and dark amusement that it would have given a common man a heart attack just to witness it.
Without a hint of panic or disorientation, Caesar sat up.
He sat in the middle of his own congealing blood, the wet sheets sticking to his skin.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet firmly on the ground.
"Another great catch, Father."
That was the last thing he whispered to the empty room.
His hands gripped the lapels of his black, blood-soaked suit. With a sudden burst of strength, he tore the garment apart, the fabric shredding like paper.
The movement revealed a powerful, lean physique, but more importantly, it revealed a tattoo.
A long, intricate snake was etched into his skin in deep black ink.
It began at his lower groin and wound its way up his torso, wrapping around his ribs and shoulders in a suffocating coil. The head of the serpent rested squarely on his neck, its fangs bared near his jawline.
He stood up, the glass crunching under his bare feet.
He moved toward the window with the grace of a creature that had never known the frailty of man.
Looking out into the night, toward the direction where Seven had vanished, Caesar crouched on the windowsill. Then, he jumped, disappearing into the moonlit fog.
__________________________________________
Hello guys, Ashburn here.
I'm just a new, aspiring author trying to bring my imagination to life.
Hope you enjoy the story and support me.
If you have a minute, I'd love it if you could leave a review, it really helps the webnovel reach more people.
Thanks for reading! ☺️☺️. (And don't mind the title..)