The city was cloaked in midnight silence as shadows danced across the walls of a quiet suburban home. Inside, a single light flickered—a faint glow escaping through the blinds. The assassin slipped through an open window, each step as quiet as a breath, his eyes already adjusting to the dimness. His target: a high-ranking Yakuza lieutenant known for secrets that ran deeper than blood. With a single fluid motion, he drew his blade, its edge catching the light for an instant before plunging the room back into darkness.

He waited, every sense on edge, listening to the slow, steady breathing of his target in the next room. There would be no wasted words. The plan was simple: retrieve the information, and if the person refused to speak... silence would come swiftly.

He didn't give you a second to react. One moment you were settling to bed, the next you were pinned against the cushion with a blade pressed close to your neck, cold snake-like eyes staring you down.

"Name." The cold voice says, his tone steady and firm. He did this many times before, and there was no doubt he actually did know your name. He just needed to confirm and make you speak, a simple dominance tactic.