David Krieger, Albuquerque (US)


    Assassins don''t hesitate.


    That''s what they drilled into me from day one. Hesitation is death, hesitation is failure, and hesitation is what separates the pros from the corpses. I''ve carried that lesson in my bones for years, burned it into my trigger finger, and let it dictate my every move. No second thoughts, no looking back. Just pull the trigger and walk away.


    So why the hell am I staring at this laptop screen like it holds the answer to a question I never knew to ask?


    The motel room is a festering wound of a place - stale air, cheap whiskey fumes, the kind of carpet that sticks to the bottom of your boots like it resents being walked on. The kind of place where people disappear and nobody asks why. Outside, the rain beats against the window, the neon hum of a flickering sign bleeding red light through the grimy glass. It''s a hell of a setting for an existential crisis.


    I sit back, run a hand over my face, and exhale. The files on the screen stare back at me, a minefield of classified documents and redacted reports.


    Everything is stamped with a single word: Eclipse.


    Eva gave me this mess last night. A flash drive, a warning, and a look in her eyes told me she knew exactly what I''d find if I dug deep enough. And damn it, she was right.


    I scroll, the words blurring together - government initiatives, psychological reprogramming, agents built from the ground up, their identities stripped away and rebuilt into something useful. Something deadly. The key wasn''t just training; it was erasure. No past, no real name, just a ghost in the system.


    And Eva? She wasn''t some unfortunate civilian caught in the crossfire. She wasn''t a name on a hit list that happened to land in my lap. She was built for this. A perfect product of a project that was never meant to see the light of day.


    Which raises a disturbing question: why the hell did they send me to kill her?


    The answer is waiting. I can feel it, crouched in the shadows between the lines of these reports, just out of reach. I dig deeper, fingers steady despite the tightness in my chest. I break through an encrypted file, peeling away layers of security designed to keep people like me out. And then I see it.


    My name.


    My pulse stops.


    It''s a personnel file - fragmented, half of it redacted, but what''s left is enough to drive a knife into my ribs.


    Mission logs. Psychological evaluations. A timeline of operations too close to my own memories. Only underneath it all, something else. Something I wasn''t meant to see.


    I wasn''t chosen for my abilities. I was chosen because I was one of them. A discarded Eclipse prototype. A failed experiment they repackaged and released into the world, trusting that I''d never start asking the wrong questions.


    Except here I am. Asking.


    The motel room shrinks around me, the air thickens, and the neon light flickers against the laptop screen like a warning. I force myself to move, to breathe, to think. If the agency knew, if they sent me after Eva anyway, then this isn''t just another job. This is personal.


    I reach for the bottle of whiskey next to my laptop, my fingers hovering over the glass. I don''t drink on a job. Not when I need to be sharp. But right now my hands are itching for something solid, something to ground me against the feeling that my whole life has just slipped away.


    Instead, I close the laptop, shove it into my bag, and reach for my gun.


    There''s only one person left who can give me answers. Locke. The bastard who recruited me. The one who turned me into a weapon.


    I''m sure, he sat on that truth, watching me stumble around in the dark, waiting for the day I''d either die or figure it out.


    Well, I figured it out and I''m not dead yet.


    —————-


    I don''t knock.


    The door gives way under the force of my boot, exploding inward, splinters flying. The smell of old cigar smoke and whiskey-soaked regret hits me, thick and suffocating. A lamp flickers faintly in the corner, barely cutting through the dim haze of the room.


    Locke is exactly where I expect him to be - seated behind a battered wooden desk, a half-burned cigar smoldering between his fingers. He doesn''t flinch, doesn''t reach for the gun I know is in the top drawer. He just exhales, slow and measured, his eyes lifting to meet mine.


    "Well," he says like we''re two old friends catching up. "Took you long enough."


    I slam the door behind me, my gun already in my hand, the weight of it anchoring me, keeping me from falling into the abyss that just opened up at my feet. My heart doesn''t race. My breathing stays steady. I refuse to feel the sick twist in my stomach at the sight of him.


    "Did you know?" My voice is sharp, stripped to steel and stone.


    Locke doesn''t even blink. Just ashes his cigar into an overflowing tray, a lazy grin curling around the corner of his mouth. "Know what?"


    I take a step closer, gun level with his chest. "Don''t play with me. Did you send me after her?“


    His amusement doesn''t waver. If anything, he looks bored. As if he''s been expecting this conversation for a long time, and now that it''s finally happening, it''s almost disappointing.


    "I didn''t send you after her," he says. "The agency did."


    I tighten my grip. "Same thing."


    He shakes his head. "Not exactly."


    I want to pull the trigger, just to wipe that look off his face. But I don''t. Not yet. Because as much as I''d like to put a bullet between his eyes, I need answers first.


    I take another step forward, the muzzle of my gun inches from his heart. "Eclipse. Tell me about it."


    For the first time, something flickers in his expression. Not shock. Not fear. Just... satisfaction.


    My stomach knotted.


    "So you finally figured it out," he mumbles.


    The words hit me in the ribs like a hammer. Because the way he says them - so casually, so unsurprisingly - tells me one thing.


    I was never supposed to find out.


    I force myself to breathe. To stay in control. To keep my mind sharp even as it spirals into free fall.


    I press the gun harder against his chest. "Tell me everything."


    Locke glances at the gun, then back at me. A slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.


    "You sure you want to know, kid?"


    "I''m not your kid."


    "No," he agrees, nodding slightly. "You''re not." He leans forward, elbows on the desk, fingers interlocked. "You were never anybody''s kid."


    The words hit me harder than they should.


    I keep my face blank, my breathing even, but something ugly coils in my chest. He''s baiting me, testing me, waiting to see how deep he can cut before I break.


    "What the hell does that mean?"


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Locke exhales, flicking the last of his cigar into the ashtray. Then he finally looks me dead in the eye.


    "It means you were made for this, David," he says, his voice low, almost soft. "You weren''t just trained. You weren''t just recruited. You were built for this. In a tiny little test tube."


    And just like that, the ground shifts beneath me.


    I feel it in my gut before my brain fully catches up, the way reality warps at the edges, becoming thin and brittle.


    "No," I say. It comes out automatically, instinctively, a reflex against the weight of what he''s telling me. "I enlisted like my Dad"


    "What Dad? You think you enlisted." Locke''s voice cuts through the space between us, sharp and precise. "You think you had a choice. A past. A life before all this." He tilts his head slightly, studying me the way a scientist might study a broken machine. "But tell me, David, how much do you actually remember?"


    My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.


    Because suddenly the memories I thought were solid - the ones I''ve built my whole damn life on - feel thin.


    I remember enlisting. I remember basic training. I remember my first mission, my first kill, the first time I looked into a man''s eyes and saw the light go out of them.


    But before that?


    I remember... fragments.


    Faded shapes. Indistinct voices. A vague sense of absence.


    No faces. No names. Nothing real.


    A slow, suffocating chill runs through my veins.


    Locke watches me, his grin widening slightly. He sees it. The cracks. The doubt. The realization that creeps in like poison.


    "Yeah," he murmurs. "Now you get it."


    My grip on the gun tightens, and my knuckles turn white. I force myself to breathe. To hold on to something solid. "If that''s true, if I was part of Eclipse, why keep me alive? Why not erase me?"


    Locke exhales, shaking his head. "You think they didn''t try?"


    The words hit me like a fist.


    I swallow hard, forcing my mind to stay sharp. "Who pulled me out?"


    "No idea," Locke says, his voice insanely casual. "Someone high enough to override protocol. Maybe they thought you could be saved. Maybe they just liked your pretty face." His grin sharpens. "Either way, they wiped out what they could and dumped you in the field, counting on you never to start asking the wrong questions."


    And yet here I am.


    My pulse pounds against my skull. I feel the weight of the gun in my hand, the cold metal pressing against my palm.


    The man I was an hour ago - the one who thought he was just a killer, just another tool in the machine - is already gone.


    And in his place, something else is awakening.


    I need air.


    I need to get out of this room, away from the pressing walls, away from the cigarette smoke that wraps around my throat like a noose.


    But I won''t leave without answers.


    I inhale sharply, forcing my focus back on the one thing that still matters. Eva.


    "She was part of Eclipse," I say, watching him closely.


    Locke doesn''t deny it. He doesn''t flinch. He just watches me with the kind of patience that makes my skin crawl.


    I push forward. "She wasn''t a failure, was she?"


    Something flickers in his expression. No surprise. Recognition.


    My stomach clenches.


    Eva wasn''t just another prototype. She wasn''t just someone the agency decided to erase from existence for the sake of convenience.


    She was the only one that worked.


    I exhale through my nose, my fingers twitching on the trigger. "And I was sent to kill her."


    Locke nods. "You were."


    I force myself to remain still. To ignore the wildfire of anger building in my chest. "Why?"


    Locke leans back, looking almost amused. "Because she remembers."


    The words land between my ribs like a bullet.


    Eva isn''t just a loose end. She''s the last living proof that Eclipse ever existed.


    Which means that every shadow in this town wants her dead. Including me. Or at least they expect me to.


    The hesitation makes sense now. The doubt. The instinct that told me to find her before I pulled the trigger. I inhale slowly, forcing my voice to stay even. "Who ordered the hit?"


    Locke smiles. "You really think I''m going to tell you?"


    I raise the gun an inch higher. He doesn''t even blink.


    I debate it. Really debate it.


    Because of the way he sits there - so smug, so angrily pleased with himself - it would be easy.


    But I don''t pull the trigger.


    Not yet.


    Instead, I lower the gun slightly. "Where is she?"


    Locke''s grin deepens. "That," he says, "is the real question, isn''t it?"


    He knows. Of course, he knows.


    He''s been pulling the strings from the beginning, watching the pieces fall into place, waiting to see if I''ll do exactly what they expect - track them down, finish the job, clean up the mess.


    Or if I''ll do something else. Something unpredictable. Something dangerous.


    I don''t give him the satisfaction of an answer.


    I just take a slow step back, gun still in hand, my mind already working out the next steps.


    Find Eva. Get the truth.


    And then decide if I''m going to kill her.


    Or if I''m going to burn the place down.


    Locke watches me leave, his grin never fading.


    As I step out into the night, into the cold air and neon-lit streets, his words echo in my head.


    Eva remembers.


    And that means she''s the only one who can tell me who the hell I am.


    —————-


    The city feels different now.


    Like something''s shifted beneath the surface, something rotten lurking in the cracks between streetlights and alleys. The rain slaps my face, cold and sharp, washing the motel stench from my skin. My boots cut through puddles, the distant hum of traffic mixing with the whisper of tires cutting through wet asphalt.


    I keep moving.


    She''s the last piece of the puzzle. The only person who knows what happened.


    Which means she''s in more danger than I ever realized.


    What if I don''t find her first?


    She won''t live long enough to tell me the truth.


    I slip into the crowd, disappearing into the shifting sea of people, my mind racing through everything I know, everything I need to do next.


    I have to find her. And then what?


    Then I decide who deserves a bullet.


    Because one thing is clear - this mission stopped being about killing Eva a long time ago. Now?


    It''s about burning the whole damn thing to the ground.


    I walk fast, head down, coat pulled tight against the wind that cuts through the neon haze of the city. The rain is relentless, cold enough to bite through layers, soaking into my collar. It keeps people hunched over, moving fast, eyes on their own business. Good. The last thing I need right now is attention.


    My mind is a jumble of calculations, contingencies, and worst-case scenarios that are unraveling faster than I can put them back together. The agency won''t waste any time sending another agent after Eva. Someone with no hesitation, no questions - someone who won''t be standing on the edge of a trigger like me.


    Locke gave me just enough truth to choke on, but not enough to hold on to. Just enough to keep me chasing the answers myself. He wanted me to squirm. He wanted me to claw through the wreckage of my past like a dog digging for bones that were never there in the first place.


    Fine.


    I don''t mind getting my hands dirty.


    But I need a lead. And I need it now.


    I head to my safe house - a half-demolished building wedged between a pawn shop and a laundromat that''s probably seen more bodies dumped in its back alley than customers come through its doors. The kind of place where no one asks questions because no one wants answers.


    The stairwell groans under my boots as I take the steps two at a time, my body on autopilot even as my mind races ahead. There''s a tension in the air, something just below the surface, too subtle for anyone else to notice. But instincts don''t lie.


    Something isn''t right.


    The moment I reach my door, I move. Gun drawn, safety off, no hesitation. The lock looks untouched. The hallway is quiet, still. But silence is a lie.


    I push the door open.


    The room is dark. Stale air, thick with the kind of stillness that presses against your ribs. I step in, slow, measured, my breath already settling into that razor-sharp focus I''ve relied on for years.


    A single drop of water hits the ground somewhere in the darkness. Softly. Almost imperceptible.


    Too loud in the silence.


    Someone is here. I don''t waste time asking who and fire.


    The silenced shot hisses through the darkness, aimed exactly where a body should be - center mass, chest height, perfect. A whisper of air, the impact of a bullet hitting nothing. Nobody. Just space. I turn on instinct.


    A shadow moves. Quickly. A flash of silver, and neon, catches the edge of a blade before it arcs toward my throat. I twist, muscles reacting before my mind can catch up, the knife slicing through the air so close I can feel it brush my skin.


    The attack doesn''t stop.


    Whoever this is, they know how to fight.


    They don''t hesitate. They don''t falter. They don''t make mistakes. But neither do I. I drive my elbow into their ribs, feel the impact crack through my arm, and force them back a step. But they roll with it, shifting, using the momentum to strike again. Another blade - low this time, angling for my gut.


    I move before I think. A sharp twist, a controlled grip, a quick, brutal disarm. The knife clatters to the ground. They don''t go for it. Instead I hear a chuckle.


    I know that smile.


    Eva. She''s looking at me, rain-slicked hair falling over her face, dark eyes sharp, mouth curled into something that''s not quite amusement, but not far from it either.


    "Hello, David.a€? Her voice is soft. Deep. Amused, by the way a cat watches a mouse realize there''s nowhere to run. I don''t let go of her wrist. My grip tightens, muscles still wired from the fight. She just tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking to my gun, then back to my face.


    "I had to make sure you weren''t just another trigger waiting to be pulled."


    I exhale, heartbeat steady, breath controlled. "So? What''s the verdict?"


    She studies me, her gaze sweeping over every detail, cataloging every shift in my posture, every flicker of tension. Testing me. Then, finally - "You hesitated."


    The words shouldn''t hit as hard as they do.


    I release her wrist, and step back, gun still in my hand, but no longer pointed at her. She doesn''t move. Just watches me, her expression unreadable.


    "You already knew, didn''t you?" I say.


    She raises an eyebrow. "Knew what?"


    "That I was part of Eclipse."


    There. The flicker of recognition. Barely a hesitation, barely a crack in the mask, but it''s there. Eva knew. Not everything. Not the whole picture. But enough.


    "Locke told me," I continue, my voice sharper now, the words cutting through the space between us like a knife. "Told me that I was a failed prototype. That they erased me. Repurposed me. Threw me into the field like a broken machine they didn''t know what to do with." A step forward. A beat of silence stretches between us. "They told me you were the only one who remembered the truth."


    Her smile fades. And for the first time, she looks almost tired.


    As if she''s been carrying the weight of this for too long. I tighten my grip on the gun. "Tell me."


    She exhales slowly and runs a hand through her damp hair, and when she speaks, it''s softer. More careful. "You should never have woken up, David."


    The words hit me like a punch in the ribs. I swallow hard, my jaw clenching. "Yeah, well. Someone screwed up." Her gaze sharpens. "No," she mumbles. "You have unfinished business." The weight of it settles between us, thick and unspoken, because we both know what that means.


    The Agency made me. They erased me. Now they''re trying to finish the job.


    I meet her gaze, pulse slow, thoughts razor sharp. "Who else is left?" She watches me for a long moment. Then- "I''ll tell you." A beat.


    "But only if you''re willing to burn it all down." The city hums outside, rain drumming on the glass, distant sirens wailing through the night. I holster my gun. ?Start talking."