David Krieger, Albuquerque (US)


    The first thing they teach you in the military is how to obey. The second thing they teach you is how to stop questioning why.


    I remind myself of that as I stare at the file on the table in front of me, the paper yellowed at the edges, the ink smudged just enough to suggest hands far less hesitant than mine have already handled it. The grainy black-and-white photograph clipped to the first page tells me everything I need to know. A woman, walking through a crowded street, her face just out of focus, her body mid-step like she''s already halfway to disappearing. But I don''t need the details to know who she is. My mind fills them in automatically, sharper than any camera lens ever could.


    My fingers drag along the rough edge of the folder, the sensation grounding, rhythmic, mechanical. But this time, it doesn''t steady me. This time, the simple motion does nothing to dull the sharp, cold weight settling in my chest.


    Across the table, a man in a suit—polished, pressed, and exuding that particular kind of bureaucratic indifference—watches me without expression. He doesn''t introduce himself. He doesn''t need to. Men like him never do. They exist in the periphery, orchestrating destruction with a signature and a well-timed silence.


    "You understand the assignment," he says, voice smooth, measured, built for control.


    I nod. But inside, something fractures. "Good." He leans back, fingers steepled. "We expect it to be handled quickly. Quietly." A pause. "You''ve worked in more complicated situations before, but I trust there won''t be any hesitation?"


    There it is. A dare, hidden beneath the weight of expectation. I force my face into something unreadable, keep my breathing slow. "There won''t be." His lips twitch, just slightly, as if he almost—almost—believes me. But he doesn''t push. The silence in the room does the work for him, thick with the scent of old leather and faint cigarette smoke, dim lighting casting jagged shadows against wood-paneled walls. A room meant for decisions made by men who never have to face the consequences.


    I glance down at the file again. Eva. It''s been years, but I can still see her as clearly as if she were standing in front of me, close enough to touch. The way she used to bite her lower lip when she was thinking. The way she tilted her head when she laughed. The way she looked at me—not like a soldier, not like a weapon, but like I was something more. Something human.


    Now, I''m expected to kill her. I close the file and shove it back and forth slightly. "Payment?" The man slides a small envelope toward me. "A quarter up front. The rest after."


    I don''t take it. Not yet. "What did she do?" I ask. His expression flickers—just for a second. Not surprise. More of Amusement. Like I''ve asked something irrelevant, something beneath his concern. "You don''t need to know that." I already know that, but I want to. I''ve done enough jobs to know when something doesn''t add up. The usual hits—politicians caught in the wrong place, operatives who outlived their usefulness, threats to national security—those, I understand. But Eva? She was none of those things. She wasn''t a spy. Wasn''t a criminal.


    So what changed? He doesn''t answer, just waits. Still. Silent. I take the envelope and the file, stand up and leave.


    The air outside is sharp, laced with the acrid scent of rain and gasoline. The city hums around me, neon reflections bleeding into slick pavement, a symphony of car horns and hurried footsteps and voices overlapping in a discordant rhythm. I walk, hands buried in my coat pockets, the file, a dead weight against my ribs. This should be easy.


    Just another job. Another name. Another target. But my pulse is off, my breath too shallow. Because for the first time in a long time, I''m hesitating. The rain comes in a slow, steady drizzle, coating the streets in a sheen of water, distorting headlights into ghostly streaks. I keep moving, letting muscle memory guide me until I find myself in an old bar on the edge of the city. Not out of habit. Something I don''t want to name.


    Inside, the lights are dim, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey and cigarettes. The kind of place where no one asks questions because everyone has something to hide. The bartender doesn''t look at me as he slides a drink across the counter. The file is in my pocket, folded, untouched since I left that room. But I don''t need to open it. I already know what''s inside.


    The last time I saw Eva, she was leaving. Hands shaking as she packed her things, voice breaking when she said she couldn''t do this anymore. I should have stopped her. Should have said something but instead, I let her go. And now, I have to hunt her down.


    I exhale slowly, finally picking up the glass. The whiskey burns all the way down. I''ve been assigned jobs with personal ties before. I know the drill. The second you start thinking, the second you start feeling—you''re already dead. I tell myself that as I pull out the file.


    The first page is the same photo, but sharper. Eva—no, not Eva anymore. Evelyn Carter. A new name. A new life. Four years under the alias, moving between cities, no permanent address, no traceable connections. She''s running. The question is—who is she running from?


    I flip to the next page. Thick black lines slicing through entire sections, redactions swallowing answers I''m not allowed to have. I don''t like that. If they trust me enough to kill her, why hide the details? My fingers tap against the counter in a slow, deliberate rhythm. This isn''t just an assignment. This is a cover-up of some sort.


    I finish the drink, shove the file back into my coat, and step out into the rain. If I''m going to do this, I need to see her first.I need to look her in the eye. And I need to know: Did she really become the kind of woman who deserves to die?


    The city shifts when you''re hunting someone. It tightens, sharpens, breathes in sync with your steps. The streets seem narrower, the alleys deeper, the glow of neon signs smeared against wet pavement like war paint. It''s a different world when you''re the predator. Every shadow stretches too long, every passing car lingers too close, every reflection in a rain-slicked window begs for second glances. I move through the night like I belong to it, slipping between bodies, timing my steps with the rhythm of the storm, letting the steady pulse of rain drown out the sound of my own breathing.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Eva''s last known location isn''t far. A small apartment above an old bookstore, nestled in the kind of quiet neighborhood where people mind their own business. A place where you can exist without being seen. Smart. If she''s been running for four years, she''s learned how to vanish, how to blend, how to be someone else.


    I don''t go straight there. That would be stupid. I double back twice, changing my pace, watching for patterns. A parked car with its engine running too long. A figure standing just out of reach. A pedestrian matching my movements, step for step, shadow for shadow. Nothing.


    Which means either I''m as alone as I think I am or someone is better at this game than I am. By the time I reach the street, the city is quiet, save for the soft hiss of tires against wet asphalt. The bookstore is dark, long closed for the night, but there''s light in the upstairs window. Her window.


    I don''t go in, not yet. Instead, I wait and I watch. Fifteen minutes pass. Then thirty. The light stays on. The rain keeps falling. My fingers twitch, my body strung too tight, coiled with something that isn''t quite hesitation but isn''t readiness either.


    I should go up there. I should do the job. But something doesn''t fit.


    Suddenly she steps into view at the Window, barely more than a silhouette behind the curtain, slow, deliberate. Her hair is longer now, loose around her shoulders, damp at the edges from the humidity of the storm. She wears a sweater too big for her frame, sleeves pulled over her hands, just like she used to do when she was nervous. My chest tightens. Muscle memory, I tell myself. Just that.


    Then she turns and she looks straight at me. I freeze. She can''t see me. Not from here. I''m too far back, swallowed by the shadows, invisible beneath the cover of night. And yet she stares. Eyes locked on my exact position.


    A slow, sinking weight drags through my gut, heavier than the rain.


    A shift in the darkness. A flicker at the edge of my vision. But I''m not the only one hunting tonight. I was careful, doubled back, checked for tails. The whisper of movement behind me.Too late.


    Instinct takes over. I twist, reaching for my gun tucked away in my jeans, but something hits me hard from the side. A precise strike, meant to disable, not to kill. A sharp blow to the ribs, another to the head, vision sparking at the edges, white-hot pain threading through my skull. My balance falters as I stumble to the sidewalk just in front of the store, my ears ring, but I don''t go down. I pivot, elbow driving back, catching something solid—a grunt of pain—but it''s not enough.


    Another hit, this time to my shoulder, sharp and clean, sending a jolt of fire down my arm. Whoever they are, they''re trained.  Not a random mugger. Not a coincidence. I move fast, lashing out, but they''re already ahead of me. A blade flashes in the rain, close enough that I feel the wind of it against my ribs before I twist away. My gun is useless at this range—too slow and too loud. But my hands aren''t. I feint left, pivot right, fist slamming into their ribs. A breath hitches, their balance shifting for just a second.


    A second is all I need. I go for the knife. They see it coming, try to pull back, but I''m faster. My grip clamps around their wrist, twisting hard, forcing the blade away. They struggle, jerking back, but I don''t let go.


    Then a voice. Sharp and familiar. "David." Everything stops. The attacker yanks free, vanishing into the darkness, but I don''t chase them. Because I know that voice. I turn, and there she is.


    Eva is standing at the top of the narrow staircase, watching me with something unreadable in her eyes.


    But she doesn''t seem to be surprised. She isn''t afraid. And suddenly, it hits me.I wasn''t the one hunting her. She was leading me here.


    She doesn''t move. Only stands half in shadow, half in the pale glow of a flickering streetlamp. Rain slicks her hair against her face, drips from the edge of her sweater sleeves, beads along the rusted railing she grips with white-knuckled fingers. But her expression—her expression is what stops me.


    Not fear. Not shock. Something closer to inevitability. Like she knew I''d come.


    The alley tightens around us, the storm stretching the silence between us, amplifying every breath, every heartbeat. I step forward, my ribs aching, my head still ringing from the fight. The pavement is slick beneath my boots, the night pressing in, the world narrowing to this moment. Eva doesn''t flinch. Just watches me. I exhale slowly. "Who was that?"


    She doesn''t answer. Instead, she turns. Slips through the door. Leaves it open behind her.


    For a second too long, I stand in the rain, my pulse drumming in my ears, my breath sharp against the cold. Every instinct in me screams to walk away, to disappear into the night, to let this job be just another checkmark on a long list of regrets. But I can''t move. Because I know, with absolute certainty, that if I walk away now, I''ll never know the truth. And something about this—about her, about that fight, about the way she looked right at me—tells me that the truth is what I should really be afraid of.


    I step inside the small apartment, dimly lit by a single lamp on a cluttered desk. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and stale coffee. The walls are lined with bookshelves, stacked with dog-eared novels and worn files. There''s a half-empty mug on the windowsill, steam still curling from its surface. Lived-in. Settled. But the tension in the air tells me she''s been expecting a storm. Eva stands near the window, arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the glass. Neither of us speak right away. We''re both waiting for the other to make the first move, to draw the first line in whatever this war is about to become.


    "You took your time," she says finally, voice soft, edged with something I can''t quite place. There''s no point in responding to that. Instead, I scan the room. Small table, wooden chairs, a narrow hallway leading to a bedroom. One door. One exit. No sign of anyone else. I turn back to her. "Who was outside?"


    For a second, she just watches me. Then, deliberately, she walks to the desk, picks up a thick folder, and pushes it toward me. I don''t take it. "What is this?"


    "The reason you''re here." I glance at her, then taking the folder. My gut tightens as I flip it open. And the ground shifts beneath me. Photographs. Reports. Handwritten notes in tight, clipped script. Names I recognize. Places I''ve been. Operations I''ve carried out. Some I remember. Some I shouldn''t. Some that never officially existed.


    And then a page near the bottom with a single name. Mine. The breath leaves my lungs in a slow, steady exhale. The page isn''t just a personnel record. It''s a timeline. Movements I haven''t made yet. Places I haven''t gone. Actions I haven''t taken. But the future is already written in ink. And then I see the date. Tomorrow. Execute Object.


    A slow, cold realization settles in my chest. This mission was never about Eva. It was about tying up loose ends. She was one. I''m the next. I inhale sharply, closing the folder. My fingers press against the worn paper, feeling the weight of every answer I didn''t ask for. When I look back at Eva, there''s no satisfaction in her expression. Just quiet inevitability. "They were going to kill you," she says. "After you killed me of course."


    Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, something much worse has just begun.


    Then Footsteps near the door. Eva moves first, hitting the light switch. The apartment plunges into darkness. I move second, gun drawn just as the first shot shatters the window. Glass explodes. The bullet buries itself in the bookshelf where I stood seconds ago. Another shot. The doorframe splinters. They aren''t waiting for me to finish the job. They''re here to clean up.


    Eva grabs my arm, pulling me toward the bedroom window of the apartment. A fire escape. Rusted, rain-slicked, barely hanging on. She climbs first. I follow. Two floors down, we hit the alley hard. I roll, absorbing the impact, gun still in hand, scanning the rooftops. Shadows shift above us—three, maybe four. Suppressors. Professionals. One of them is the guy from before.


    I''m pretty sure, they won''t stop until we''re dead. Eva grips my arm. "Move." We run.


    The city swallows us whole. The rain drowns our footsteps, but I know they''re coming. And as we disappear into the maze of the city, the only thing I know for sure: The mission is over. I was supposed to kill Eva.


    Now, I''m running for my life with her.