Back at the safehouse, the night had gone quiet. The others were scattered—Renji was poring over maps, Kaleb checking weapons. Marcus sat alone at the long table, nursing a bruised rib and a bruised ego, when the translator walked over and dropped a folded piece of paper in front of him. The translator handed Marcus a note. "From her," he said, then shook his head with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Maybe it's time for me to change jobs. I'm officially done here." Marcus raised an eyebrow, unfolding the note. The handwriting was Spanish, of course—but someone had scrawled the translation underneath, likely the translator himself. "Maybe not dinner… but coffee. Maybe."
Marcus stared at the paper for a long moment. Then he huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Look at you," he muttered. "Guess I got more pull than the Force." He folded the note again, slower this time. A grin ghosted across his lips."… I better start practicing how to say, 'two sugars, no regrets' in Spanish."
After weeks of intense planning, the time for the mission had come. The air inside the warehouse was thick with tension. The team, dressed and prepared, stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Marcus glanced at the others—Lucia Maren, Alina Vetrova, Renji Takeda, and Kaleb Tesfaye—then back at the blueprint one last time. His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp, focused. The mirror showed that look in detail—not just the gaze of a killer, but that of a man who had mastered the art of control.
Yet even with everything in place, something didn't sit right. The client had remained a shadow throughout the process—never meeting them in person, never offering more than cold, calculated instructions through the translator. Marcus had worked for dangerous people before, but this one was different. The detachment, the silence, the way he kept his face and name hidden—it felt less like secrecy and more like manipulation. It wasn't fear Marcus felt. It was instinct—and instinct told him the client had his own game.
Still, he forced the doubt down. The mission came first. Whatever came after, he would deal with it.
Just then, the translator's phone buzzed. He stepped away, answering it quietly. The group turned toward him, watching. The conversation was hushed—just a faint voice on the other end speaking in a language none of them recognized. The translator listened, eyes narrowed, nodding only once. When he turned back, his face was unreadable.
"The client says…" he paused, eyes scanning the group, "No loose ends. Not even among yourselves."
A cold silence settled over the room. No one spoke. The meaning was clear. The client didn't need to show his face to make his threat real. Without another word, they began to move—each assassin slipping into their role, ready to carry out the plan. But as they left the warehouse, the words hung in the back of their minds like a shadow: No loose ends.
Finally, they executed the plan with precision—every move unfolding exactly as intended. According to the plan, the politician would meet his team privately in a nearby building before addressing the rally. Alone in a separate prep room, he was vulnerable—making it the perfect strike point.
Disguised in campaign costumes and matching masks, the team blended into the crowd. Each assassin communicated in their own language through radios, and the translator, equipped with his own radio, served as the central hub—relaying instructions in real-time across languages. With his guidance, the group moved as one.
At the right moment, they triggered a power outage and set off the fire alarm, creating just enough confusion to slip inside unnoticed. Within minutes, the job was done. The mission was a success—the politician was assassinated as planned. His guards were swiftly taken down by Lucia, Alina, and Kaleb, while Marcus and Renji carried out the kill. Then, like shadows, they disappeared into the chaos.
The mirror shifted, revealing the group after the mission. They had succeeded the politician was dead, and the mission was complete. Now, they were back at their hideout, the weight of the task lifting off their shoulders. Laughter filled the room as they shared drinks, relaxed, and let the tension of the operation melt away.