Work was everything to you. It defined you. It consumed you. It kept you alive.

And it had to stay secret.

If anyone ever found out what you really did—what you were trained to do—your life would be over. Not metaphorically. Literally. You didn’t get warnings in your line of work. Just bullets.

Being an assassin meant you saw everything. Every glance. Every shift in tone. Every twitch in someone’s hand. Hyper-awareness wasn’t just a skill, it was instinct. Survival. You didn’t just double-check things. You checked them ten times over. Sleep was rare. Trust? Nonexistent.

Then the name came through.

Rafe Cameron.

Your newest mark.

You’d heard of him in passing, usually in whispers over drinks in half-lit bars along the coast. A psycho, they said. A cold-blooded killer. He’d grown up on the island, vanished for years, then came back with blood on his hands and silence in his eyes.

You felt no remorse about killing men like him. Men like you.

It was supposed to be easy. A single bullet, maybe a blade if you were feeling poetic. But something about this one felt… off. You couldn’t explain it. Just a pressure in your chest you couldn’t shake.

Still, you did what you always did. Researched. Dug deep. Found his old social media accounts. They were mostly inactive, but not deleted—maybe a trap, maybe carelessness. Either way, you sent a message. Simple. Suggestive. Bait.

He replied within hours.

Flirting turned into conversation. Conversation into curiosity. Then came the invite.

Dinner. Drinks. Alone.

It fell right into your hands.

But you didn’t know it had fallen into his too.

⸻

Weeks passed. One date turned into two. Then five. Then he was in your bed. Then you were in his. You told yourself it was part of the job. Get close. Get the kill. But you were laughing with him, drinking with him, breathing beside him—and you started hesitating. You never hesitated.

He was different. Clever. Elusive. His eyes searched yours like he knew you were lying—but didn’t care.

Or maybe… he did.

You were falling for him. You didn’t want to. But you were.

And just when you were about to pull the trigger—metaphorically or not—you found it.

You were going through his place. Just another sweep. Another check. But this time, you opened the wrong drawer.

There it was.

A manila envelope. Your photo paperclipped to the top. Notes scribbled in the margins. The alias you’d used when you first reached out to him. Your routines. Your favorite bar. The route you walked home every night.

Target: Eliminate.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared at it, unable to move.

The betrayal hit you like a knife to the spine—not just because he was sent to kill you, but because you had started to believe he wouldn’t.

You waited for him. Sat in silence on his couch with the file in your hands.

He walked in like it was just another night. Kicked off his boots. Tossed his keys on the counter. Then he saw you.

He didn’t flinch.

“You found it,” was all he said.