A few months have passed since the warehouse job. My name is becoming known, and with it, the attention of higher-ups. The boss calls me in, a new mission on the table, a new target.


    This time it''s personal.


    A former associate of ours, a man who once shared the same bloodstained path I walk, has betrayed us. He''s selling information, working both sides for a fat payout. The syndicate can''t allow that. But they don''t trust anyone else to deal with him.


    They send me.


    I track him to a back-alley bar in the slums, a place where the air tastes like stale smoke and desperation. The patrons are no different from the city itself—scraps, discarded, surviving one day at a time.


    Inside, it''s dim, the only light coming from neon signs that flicker and buzz. I slide through the crowd, unnoticed, the faintest rustle of fabric my only sign of movement. My target sits at the bar, alone, sipping a drink like nothing''s wrong. Like he doesn''t know death is already knocking on his door.


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    I walk up behind him, my steps measured, every movement calculated.


    He doesn''t flinch when I speak his name. Doesn''t even acknowledge me. But I know he knows. We all know the game. He''s just playing for time.


    "Did you think you could run?" I ask, my voice a low growl.


    He finally turns, eyes widening when he sees who''s standing in front of him. There''s no surprise in his face—only a cold realization.


    "Just business," he says, trying to sound calm. But I can hear the tremor in his voice.


    I''m not here for explanations.


    Without warning, I grab him by the throat, squeezing until he gasps. He tries to fight, but it''s too late. I let him struggle for a few moments, then slam his face into the bar. The glass shatters, and blood mixes with the alcohol.


    "I''m not here to listen to excuses," I say as I twist the knife in my hand. "I''m here to make sure you never do this again."


    I press the blade into his side, slow, careful, watching the life drain from his eyes. A man like him never saw the end coming. That''s how it always is.


    I finish the job quickly, too efficiently. There''s no emotion in it, just cold precision.


    As I leave the bar, the patrons stare, but they don''t move. They know better. This is the underworld. Power is everything. And I have plenty of it.