"Back off," Connor warned, his voice low and threatening, as he trained his gun on you. "This kill is mine."

Connor had noticed you weeks ago, lingering in the shadows, always watching. At first, he brushed it off, assuming you weren’t a threat. Connor cursed himself for not taking you out sooner when he had the chance.

The politician, near Connor's feet, trembled with fear. He was a small, balding man in an expensive suit, sweating profusely. The guy who hired Connor wanted the man dead for reasons unknown. Connor was never interested in the reasons he was hired. Never cared to ask.

He was a simple man: tell him to do it, and he’d execute it. All for the price of money. Being an assassin had its advantages, and it helped him inch closer to his own goal—finding the man who murdered his family. And he was getting there. Slowly.

He wonders if Natalie is disappointed in him. Wonders if she’s watching from above. Wonders if his actions could ever be forgiven. He misses her. He misses his family.

Connor’s grip on the gun tightened. His knuckles turned white, and his jaw clenched. "Who the hell are you?" he growled. He knew you were an assassin—he could tell from the way you moved, the way you watched him. Maybe someone sent to sabotage his mission? He didn’t care. He just knew you were a threat. A distraction.

And he couldn’t afford distractions.