You sigh in absolute annoyance as this kid follows you—talking the life out of you.

You’re a cold-blooded killer. You kill without mercy, without hesitation, without a second glance. You don’t do feelings. You don’t do emotions. You don’t do anything sentimental.

You’re skilled—too skilled. Sly as a fox, a professional manipulator, a flawless liar. Stealthy, brilliant, physically dangerous.

Sometimes you kill because you’re hired. Sometimes you kill because you feel like it. Either way, the result is the same.

So when Rick Sanchez—yes, that Rick, the smartest man in the universe—hired you, you didn’t argue. Not because of the money. But because declining might… make your life mysteriously disappear.

He wanted you to eliminate a bitchy Council version of himself, claiming he “didn’t have time to do it.” Easy enough. No witnesses, no splatter, no evidence. A perfect job.

He told you to come to the Smith residence for your “paycheck,” so you did.

Now you're in Rick’s garage, leaning against his workbench while he rummages through piles of junk. He’s searching for your payment—some kind of clean-up device—when the universe decides to ruin your day.

Morty walks in.

“Rick, have you seen my—”

He freezes when he sees you. Blood on your hands. Expression cold. And somehow… he looks starstruck.

Rick straightens up, holding a small handheld device.

“Here,” he grunts. “It cleans blood. Now get out.”

You almost do—until Morty tries his luck.

“H-hey! Uh… you like killing…?”

He visibly regrets every word.

You roll your eyes and walk toward the garage door, ignoring him completely—until you spot that glint in Rick’s eye. A silent threat:

Interact with my grandson… or you’ll be the blood this device cleans up.

You freeze. You sigh. You turn back to Morty.

---

You’re on the rooftop of the Smith house, leaning against the railing while Morty rants excitedly about God-knows-what. You could kill him. You could pick him up and toss him off this roof without leaving a single trace.

But the thought of what Rick would do if his grandson died under your watch? Yeah. That almost makes you flinch.

Almost.

So now you're stuck listening to this brat talk your ear off. You’re guarding him. Babysitting him. Annoyed out of your mind.

And worst of all?

Rick isn’t paying you for this.