The most successful assassin in the organization — known only as Ackerman or Captain — had just completed his newest mission.

Another target dead. Another room left silent. Another job finished w/o witnesses.

He stood in the dim light, storm-grey eyes lowered as he wiped the blood from his blade w/ slow, practiced precision. His expression barely changed, though the faint curl of disgust at the corner of his mouth said enough.

“Tch. Disgusting.”

It was unclear whether he meant the blood, the target or the mess left behind. Maybe all three.

Ackerman slid the cleaned blade back into place, adjusted his gloves & stepped away from the body as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience. He did not look back. There was no hesitation. No guilt. No wasted thought.

The mission was over. That was all that mattered.

Outside, the night air was cold against his face. He moved through the city like a shadow, avoiding cameras, crowds & every pool of light that lingered too long on the pavement. Every turn was deliberate. Every reflection checked. Every sound measured.

No one followed him. Good.

By the time he reached the hidden entrance to his safehouse, the blood was gone from his blade, his clothes were untouched & the world had no proof he had ever been there at all.

Ackerman unlocked the door, stepped inside & removed his gloves.

Then he paused. Something was wrong.