Monday, 16:10 p.m. — Downtown Los Angeles
Max slipped through the lobby of the seven-story building like he'd been carved out of the late afternoon light. No hurry, no drag—just that calm, unsettling stride of someone who already knows how the next ten minutes will play out.
He stepped into the elevator.
Ding.
Seventh floor.
The hallway was quiet, washed in the soft hum of old fluorescent lights. Max walked to the last door on the floor—his door—and paused. The key was in his hand, but instinct froze his wrist mid-air.
Something was off.
He lowered his gaze to the keyhole. A shallow dent sat right beside it—small, almost invisible, but not to him. The kind only made when someone tries to force their way in without knowing how.
Max's eyes narrowed.
"Ten minutes. Maybe less," he murmured to himself.
He brushed his fingers across the doorknob. Warm. Too warm. Warmer than it should be at this hour.
And cleaner—unnaturally clean. Someone had wiped it recently, removing traces, but not well enough to fool him.
Not a pro, Max thought. Sloppy hands. Wrong tools. Wrong timing.
The hallway suddenly felt tighter, heavier—the air itself holding its breath, waiting to see what he'd do next.
Max pocketed the key, shoulders loosening as a faint, dangerous smile pulled at the edge of his lips.
Sy let out a long, exhausted groan in his head.
"Yep… a freaking noob. So what's the plan now?"
Max shrugged lightly, expression flat. "Nothing much. Just the usual."
He slid the key into the lock and stepped inside as casually as if returning from a grocery run. No tension, no hesitation. Just another day in paradise.
The apartment's air felt heavier than usual—still, warm, stirred by someone else's breath not long ago. Max didn't slow down. He walked straight toward the kitchen, opened the fridge—
And a shadow exploded up from the counter.
A blade flashed toward his throat.
Max turned—faster than any human should. His hand shot out, fingers closing around the attacker's wrist with a grip that cracked bone. The knife stopped a breath away from his skin.
A masked figure in a dark hoodie and a yukio-style demon mask stared him down. Max sighed, almost bored.
"Miss Waitress… barging into someone's home isn't exactly good manners."
She didn't flinch. No startle. No denial. She twisted, dropping low, trying to sweep his legs and drag him down—
But Max didn't budge. Her movements slowed, vision tunneling as a thin crimson line bloomed across her neck.
She hit the floor without a sound.
"Sy," Max said, flicking the blood from his fingers, "burn the body."
A whisper of heat.
A pulse of unseen force.
The corpse disintegrated into drifting ash.
Sy crackled like static in his mind.
"And that makes attack number one hundred this year. Congrats, champ."
Max snorted, letting a bitter laugh escape. "A thousand points down the drain. What a pain." His gaze lingered on the empty space where the body had been, the shower of ash still drifting faintly. Two years of being popular came with perks—and curses. One of them: a bounty on his head.
Someone—or some group—had decided Max was too dangerous to live, and ever since, clean kills and near-perfect success rates had kept him busy. No pro, no novice, had ever survived. But each kill came with a price: wish points—hard-earned, gone in an instant to clear the scene. Max let out a sigh, the weight of wasted effort pressing against his chest.
He moved to the bathroom, letting the shower wash away the tension, the cold bite of water a tiny comfort against the lingering killing intent that clung like smoke.
"So… sleep now?" Sy's voice dripped with feigned cheer.
"No," Max replied, eyes narrowing as water dripped down his face. "Jobs first. School starts in a month—that's enough time to polish my credentials a little more."
Minutes later, dressed light, Max was at his desk, laptop glowing in the dim apartment light. He navigated the assassin web, scanning task lists like a predator browsing prey. One entry made him pause: Take out a monstrous madman.
Max leaned closer, eyes scanning the screen: dozens slaughtered in a single night. Victims included a client's child and extended family. The killer's abilities were… bestial. Reward: 1,000 Tokens.
A smirk tugged at Max's lips. "San Francisco, huh? Finally… some real adventure." He ignored the fat paycheck; curiosity burned hotter than greed.
"Leaving when?" Sy's voice was almost giddy, a rare break from his usual irritation.
Max checked the clock: 16:30. "Right now."
He dressed lightly, walkout the door,
Max locked the door behind him just as a voice called out from across the hall.
"Hey, are you the new neighbor?"
He looked up. A girl stood there, arms crossed casually, eyes sweeping over him with a mix of curiosity and… something more. Damn, she was impressed, he could tell. Max smiled lightly.
"I just moved in today," he said, his voice smooth but effortless.
The girl nodded, tilting her head with a small smile. "Okay then. Want me to show you around? I've lived here my whole life—I know all the hot spots. Name's Sarah, by the way."
She stretched out her hand. Max took it, their fingers brushing lightly. "Max."
"I'll hold you to that," he added with a faint smirk. "Right now, I've got somewhere to go—might be gone a day or two. We'll talk later."
Sarah's smile faltered just a touch, a spark of disappointment in her eyes, but she waved it off. "No problem. Consider it… a kind of date," she teased, giving him a playful wink.
Max chuckled softly. "Sure. Got to go now. See you later, Sarah."
She watched as he stepped into the elevator, her gaze lingering. "Bye, Max," she murmured.
And then—just like that—the air shifted. A ripple passed through the hallway, and a figure appeared beside her as if summoned by command.
He was huge—2.2 meters tall, dressed in a black tuxedo, black hair slicked back, red eyes glowing faintly, features so sharp he could have been carved from marble. The man bowed with impeccable precision.
"Miss, your father requests your presence immediately."
Sarah rubbed her temple with a weary sigh. "Seriously? What is it this time?"
In a blink, her form shimmered, reshaping into something ethereal. Blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, ruby eyes burning with an intensity that outshone the man beside her. She looked every inch a royal figure, a deadly damsel cloaked in elegance.
"I don't know the exact details," the man replied, voice steady and calm, "but it seems a newborn has gone rampant."
Sarah's face darkened. "A newborn… going rampant? That's serious. Humans won't let us get away with this easily…"
She turned sharply to the man. "Let's go."
He nodded once, and in an instant, the air around them shimmered again. They vanished, leaving nothing but the faintest echo of movement, as if they'd never been there at all.
Outside the building, Max stepped into the crisp air, eyes sweeping left, right, then left again, as if checking for unseen observers. His footsteps were light, almost casual, the kind of stroll that could hide a predator's intent. The city's hum faded behind him as he moved, each block taking him closer to his destination.
An hour and a half later, he arrived at a rundown junkyard. Rusted cars leaned like fallen soldiers against cracked concrete walls, weeds clawed through the asphalt, and the faint smell of oil and decay hung heavy. Max stopped at the entrance, waiting—patient, silent, like a wolf at the edge of the forest.
Vroom~
A low, throaty growl broke the quiet. The 3-liter I6 engine of a BMW M3 Competition purred like a caged beast, echoing against the warehouse walls. The gates, which had seemed lifeless, swung open, and the car glided out the yard, the sheen of its paint catching the last rays of the afternoon sun.
It stopped in front of Max. The door swung open, revealing a man stepped out with a presence that matched the roar of the engine. Blonde hair, tattoos snaking across his forearms, a beard rough and unkempt—everything about him screamed menace.
"So… what do you think?" His voice was low, sharp, carrying the weight of someone used to being obeyed.
Max didn't immediately look at him, his gaze locked on the car. The smooth curves, the raw promise of power beneath the hood. He smiled, faint but cold. "Beautiful. I'll take it."
The man nodded once, saying nothing more, then disappeared back into the shadows of the yard.
Max slid into the passenger seat. A large envelope rested neatly beside him. He opened it, revealing identification papers—his name, his new vehicle, everything in order. Nodding, he placed the documents on the dash, turned the key, and felt the engine hum beneath his hands like a living thing.
The tires gripped the asphalt, and the BMW roared forward with precision. Max's lips curved into a smirk, cold and calculating.
"San Francisco," he muttered, voice barely audible over the engine. "I'm coming."