The arcade was loud—neon lights blinking, retro music blaring, kids screaming over high scores. It was the last place anyone expected to die.

Which is exactly why Slade chose it.

He moved through the chaos like a shadow in a funhouse—hood up, hands in his pockets, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Surveillance was a joke. Security, worse. His target sat in front of a racing game, oblivious, greasy fingers mashing buttons, a backpack full of stolen intel resting by his side.

He didn’t draw a weapon.

He didn’t need to.

One quick motion. One silent breath. A blade pressed where no camera could see. A whisper. A gurgle. And the game over screen blinked before the body hit the floor.

By the time the machine restarted, Slade was already gone.

No one noticed.

Except the high score, now reading: TERMINATED.