Tokens. The lifeblood of the assassin organization—the currency, the measure of skill, the very thing that decides your place in the hierarchy. Every assignment stacks your reputation like bricks in a tower.
Ranking wasn't just a number—it was proof. Rank 1 through 9, each step harder than the last. But moving past certain barriers—like Rank 3 to 4, or 6 to 7—wasn't about luck or killing. It demanded precision, execution, and excellence; nothing less than perfect completion of specific tasks, or the gates remained locked.
Performance ratings were simple: Good. Very Good. Excellent.
And me? I've done 237 jobs. Every single one: Excellent.
Currently, I'm rank 3. Two of the three critical tasks for the next tier? Done. And again… excellent ratings. Not to brag—but this next job? I'll carve another perfect score into the ledger.
Tuesday, 03:50 PM — San Francisco, Rico Tools Store.
The BMW purred to a stop outside the shop, tires kissing the asphalt. Max stepped out, the sunlight catching his platinum hair, eyes scanning the street with quiet calculation before moving inside.
Ring~
The bell above the door announced his entrance. Behind the counter stood Rico, the store's owner: seventy years old, grey hair swept back neatly, skin lined and wrinkled with age, yet his bright eyes burned with a youthful sharpness. Those eyes locked onto Max the moment he stepped in—unblinking, unwavering. Max didn't flinch.
He approached, bowing slightly. "Blood sprayed is my world flayed, a morrow dead to the present sin," he intoned—the assassin organization's creed, words heavy with meaning and menace.
Rico's eyes softened for the first time, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "At ease, young one. What brings you to this old man today?"
Max rose, his gaze steady. "I need black-colored military wear—bulletproof, bladeproof, shock-absorbing. Dual one-foot blades. A laptop. And information on the recent killings in the east part of the city."
Rico hummed thoughtfully, disappearing into the backroom. Five minutes passed, the quiet hum of the shop filling the space. Max's eyes flicked over the gear laid out before him—everything precise, tailored—but something was missing.
Before he could speak, a flash drive hurtled toward him, cutting the air like a dart. Max's hand shot out, catching it effortlessly. His reflexes were inhuman, a predator's instinct honed by years of training. Rico, seeing the catch, nodded once, eyes closed—a silent show of respect.
Max didn't linger with pleasantries. He gathered the equipment, securing the laptop and flash drive, then turned on his heel. The streets called. He slid into the BMW and drove east, the hum of the engine blending with the distant noise of the city.
A low-end hotel awaited, a place owned by the assassination organization. Minimal attention, maximum efficiency — that was the way of an assassin.
After finishing the lodging formalities, using the fake identification —
Why? Why was the identification needed?
Well, to have something to present when officials came. They wouldn't risk everything for a single individual, not when they serviced thousands of assassins yearly. That was the quiet logic of their world.
Max settled onto the narrow desk in his room. The hum of the air conditioner blended with the distant city sirens, a muted rhythm beyond the walls. He opened his laptop, the screen casting a faint glow, and slid the flash drive into the port.
The screen blinked alive, data loading in a precise sequence. Max's eyes scanned quickly, taking in the dossier.
Grey Foreman.
A name that sounded mundane, almost forgettable. A normal civilian from England—until a month ago, when he vanished. Returned to San Francisco a week ago, and since then… the carnage. One or two at first, escalating to a dozen or more each night. Targets: clubs, large gatherings, anywhere people congregated. The trail led to an abandoned plastic factory. Max let the words settle, eyes narrowing. Danger was simple when measured—chaotic when underestimated.
"Well… that's insightful," he murmured, voice calm as he leaned back slightly.
Sy's tone piped up in his head, tinged with caution. "So… what's next on the agenda?"
Max glanced at his reflection in the laptop's darkened screen, he thought for a moment, standing up changing into the black military uniform with precise, almost mechanical movements. The suit was bulletproof, bladeproof, and shock-absorbing. Hood drawn low, gas mask dangling around his neck. Every motion was practiced, deliberate, professional.
"Getting the job done," Max said casually, sliding the mask into place.
"Don't get overconfident," Sy warned, voice irritable. "You don't know exactly what you're up against. Getting killed won't be fantasy."
Max smirked behind the mask, stretching his shoulders and rolling his wrists. "Who's dying isn't part of the equation. I win. Always."
The black fabric hugged his frame as he did a few basic stretches. His movements were fluid, predatory, like a shadow preparing to strike.
Whistle~ Sy's voice sounded in his head again, now dripping with sarcastic admiration. "Looking sharp, soldier. That target would fall for you before you even put a knife to his throat."
Hearing Sy's praise, Max remained indifferent. "I should appreciate the compliments," he murmured, "but since it's coming from you, I'll pass."
Sy scoffed. "Seems like being with me's toughened your skin. Well, what are you waiting for—get on your knees and thank me!"
He ignored the familiar itch to strike the name on his kill list calling for attention. Instead, he ran through the dossier again, meticulously sweeping for every detail, every hint that could tip the odds in his favor.
"Okay. I'm off."
Without hesitation, he vaulted through the window. The city air rushed past him as he leapt six stories down, landing silently on the adjacent rooftop. Concrete and metal echoed faintly, but his movements were fluid, precise—silent as a shadow, lethal as a serpent.
He wove through the rooftops with serpentine grace, each jump calculated, each landing barely disturbing the city below. The golden glow of the setting sun reflected off glass towers and distant highways, casting long shadows he melted into.
Tonight, the hunt begins.