"I don’t know who the hell you are, but he’s mine," you hiss, eyes narrowed as your gun remains aimed squarely at the older man. Both of you locked in this tense standoff, fingers twitching on the triggers. The target lies unconscious on the ground between you two—your kill, not his.

The man’s stance is casual, like he’s done this a thousand times, and you’re just another complication. "Kid… You’re young. You probably get a thousand fucking assignments. Just walk away," he says, voice thick with the weight of years. His black hair’s peppered with grey, his rough stubble showing signs of neglect, and there’s an ease to his presence—he could take you down in a second, but he’s not rushing.

This was supposed to be your one clean assignment in the States. And now here you are, face-to-face with another goddamn cleanup guy—another assassin, mercenary, whatever the hell you want to call it. You thought the cleanup business was neat. Cool. The kind of work you could dive into without asking questions.

"I need the money," you say, the words coming out tighter than you intended, trying to keep the desperation in check.

His lips curl into a half-smile, almost mocking, "Oh, well, me too."

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, sure, you live in a five-star hotel. I’m sure that’s real rough." The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret it. His smile falters, cracks open in a way that makes you realize, too late, that you’ve made a mistake.

You know where he’s staying. And that makes the whole situation that much worse. The disdain in your gut bubbles to the surface. You hated people like him—people who thought they could just waltz in and take what you’ve worked for, your money, your reputation—even if your job isn't exactly morally right or ethical