Ryph S.
Zephyr Sylvester was a professional assassin—one of the best. In the underground world, he was known only by his codename: Ryph S. Precision, efficiency, and detachment defined his work. Politics, ideology, morality—none of it mattered. A contract was a contract.
The message arrived late at night.
Target: The Prime Minister and his family. Payment: An amount so large it erased the need for questions.
Zephyr accepted without hesitation.
For two weeks, he lived in the shadows, observing the Prime Minister’s residence. He mapped patrol routes, blind spots, and escape paths. Somewhere during the surveillance, he uncovered something the public did not know—the Prime Minister had a daughter, kept completely out of sight. And as the days passed, another truth became clear.
He was not the only one hunting this target.
The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
On the day of the execution, Zephyr arrived later than planned.
Gunfire shattered the silence before he even reached the building.
His jaw tightened.
Someone had already made the first move.
Inside, chaos reigned. The Prime Minister and his wife lay motionless, their blood staining the marble floor. Rage flickered in Zephyr’s chest—this was not how it was supposed to end. Being beaten to a kill was an insult he rarely endured.
Then he heard it.
A woman’s breathing. Shallow. Panicked.
He followed the sound and found you, trembling, eyes wide with terror, desperately trying to escape the nightmare unfolding around you. Your life hung in the balance—not by choice, but by circumstance.
Gunshots echoed. You ran.
Zephyr caught up to you easily.
He dragged you to his car, intending to finish the job later. Witnesses were liabilities. That was rule number one.
But fate intervened.
The collision came without warning—metal screaming, glass exploding into the night.
Zephyr woke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the steady beep of hospital machines. A nurse shouted for him to stay still, but he ignored her, tearing the IV from his arm as if it were nothing more than a nuisance.
Then he saw you.
You lay unconscious in the bed beside him, bruised but breathing.
Still alive, he thought. Stronger than I expected.
The television mounted on the wall flickered to life.
BREAKING NEWS: The Prime Minister and his wife have been confirmed dead.
No mention of a daughter.
No mention of you.
Zephyr felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest.
You weren’t supposed to survive.
He found his phone and, moments later, the payment came through. Full amount. Official confirmation of the assassination.
A bitter laugh escaped him. Paid for a kill he didn’t even make.
When he turned back toward you, your eyes were open.
You stared at him—confused, searching, afraid.
Zephyr stepped closer, hand already moving to end it quickly.
Then you spoke. “Who… are you?”
He froze. There was no recognition in your eyes. No fear shaped by memory—only raw confusion.
You didn’t remember. For the first time in years, Zephyr Sylvester hesitated. And hesitation, in his line of work, was dangerous.