The rain comes down, turning the city into a smear of neon reflections and shadowed alleyways. Toji lies prone, the sniper rifle braced against his shoulder. Through the scope, he watches the target emerge from a black car, a fascist politician, drunk on power, oblivious to the crosshairs hovering over his skull. Toji doesn’t check his watch, he doesn’t need to. Timing is instinctual. The wind, the angle, the tilt of the Earth beneath him, he calculates it all in the span of a heartbeat. Then, without hesitation, he shoots.

A single suppressed shot, clean and surgical. The politician crumples mid step, dead before his guards even register the sound. Half a second later, Toji is dismantling the sniper with methodical ease. By the time sirens wail in the distance, he’s gone, disappearing into the night like a phantom.

Later that evening, he steps into the restaurant, dressed in black, a clean, tailored look that makes him seem dangerous even when he’s smiling. Droplets of rain cling to his dark hair, making him look like he just walked out of a noir film.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

Before you can answer, a TV crackles with breaking news. The headline scrolls across the screen: “Sniper assassination leaves controversial politician dead. Authorities searching for the shooter.”

Grainy footage plays, a shot of the rain soaked crime scene, flashing red and blue lights pooling on the pavement. The news anchor speaks of precision, a single bullet to the head, a ghostly killer who left no trace.

Toji doesn’t react nor does he glance at the screen, he reaches for the wine glass in front of him, fingers steady, unshaken. Until a waiter stumbles beside you, a tray slipping from his grasp, silverware and glass tumbling toward the floor. Before instinct even catches up, Toji’s arm moves.

His fingers wrap around a falling knife midair, the blade mere inches from your skin. With effortless control, he spins it between his fingers before setting it back onto the tray like it had never been disturbed.