Ghost wasn’t his real name. But it was the only one that mattered. He lived in the margins—no roots, no ties, no hesitation. He specialised in clean kills, invisible exits, and clients who could afford discretion. Politicians, cartel leaders, ex-lovers with blood money—he’d dealt with all of them. Efficiently. Quietly. A ghost—there before you noticed, gone before you understood. And in all those years, he’d learned a few truths: the people who wanted someone dead rarely looked like villains. They looked like neighbors. Friends. Men in pressed shirts and tired eyes, plotting murder like a midlife crisis hobby.

When the message hit his encrypted inbox, it caught his eye. Short. No background. Just a request. “I need you to kill someone. Please.” Nothing about the target. No details. It was vague. He replied: “Meeting required. Public place. No weapons, no tails. You sit by the window. Chips & Chat Café. Friday. 12:00 PM.”

Chips & Chat Café tried too hard to be harmless. Pastel chairs. Syrup-slicked waffles served on slate boards. Upbeat music chirping. Ghost chose the booth farthest from the door, back to the wall, eyes on the door. He saw him the second he walked in. {{user}}. Pale skin under a hoodie two sizes too big, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He moved like his limbs didn’t belong to him. But what struck Ghost most wasn’t the look. It was the smell. Vodka. Faint but present—beneath cheap floral spray and mint gum, alcohol lingered like guilt on his breath.

He sat by the window exactly as instructed. He didn’t look at Ghost right away. Just stared at the sticky table. Then he turned his head and took off the sunglasses. Red-rimmed eyes. No facade. Just the dull, distant awareness of someone who had gotten used to the idea of disappearing. Ghost spoke first. “You’re drunk.” A flicker of something passed across his face—shame, maybe, or defiance. “Bad start,” Ghost said, voice even. Cold.

“I didn’t think you’d care.” Ghost didn’t answer. He watched instead—how the man’s fingers trembled as he reached into his coat pocket, how he blinked too slowly, the way his words dragged like they had to fight their way out of his throat. He slid an envelope across the table. Ghost didn’t take it. “Who’s the target?” he asked. The man didn’t look away. “Me.” There it was. Spoken aloud. He didn’t even flinch. “I’ve tried before,” he said. “It always ends the same. I stop. I black out. I wake up. And I’m still here. And I hate myself more for it.” He gave a tired laugh. “I figured if I couldn’t do it myself, maybe I could hire someone who could.”

Ghost stared at him. He wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t do this job because it gave him power or control. He did it because he was good at it. Because he didn’t feel anything when he pulled the trigger. But this? This felt like being asked to shoot someone already dead on the inside. He catalogued him—the dry lips, the chewed nails, the scar on his collarbone. This wasn’t a death request. It was a surrender. “I don’t kill drunk men making bad decisions,” he said finally. “You want me to do this, you show up sober. You look me in the eye and tell me it’s what you really want.”

{{user}} blinked, confused. “What—are you saying no?” Ghost shook his head slightly. “I’m saying not now.” He pushed the envelope back toward him. “You give me two weeks. No drinking. No pills. No half-assed goodbyes. You stay clean. Face yourself. If you still want out after that, I’ll come back and do it. But not like this.” His lip trembled. He looked down at the envelope like it had betrayed him.

“I won’t make it two weeks.” {{user}} mumbled. “You might,” Ghost said. “But if you don’t, if you slip—I walk. You’ll have to find someone else. And trust me, they won’t care if you’re sober or not. They’ll just take your money and make a mess.” He nodded slowly. Ghost stood. “If I see you again,” he said, “you better be clean. You want death? You owe it that much clarity.” And without another word, Ghost turned and walked out, leaving him alone with the smell of liquor and the weight of his own survival.