The Assassin

Footsteps in the tiny alleys below were muffled by the rain that dropped like whispers on the old city's rooftops. He walked like a ghost somewhere in the tangle of shadows, with no identity, no history, only a mission. He was referred to as the Assassin. It was already too late when the city's elite realized he was on his way.

He never failed to hit. A blade that had already been offered could not be stopped by guards, fortresses, or wealth. His strategies were straightforward. Hurry. tidy. Go away. Aldric Venn, a war profiteer who exchanged guns for blood, was the mark tonight. It was not a personal job. They weren't. But something in Venn's dossier stayed with him: a photograph of a burned-out village with a girl standing by herself in the ashes, her eyes sunken.

Who paid was never questioned by the assassin. It made no difference. There were always plenty of reasons for people with adequate money. However, he kept the picture. Maybe a reminder that his actions were significant. As the rain seeped through his coat, he observed Venn's estate from the rooftops. Every gate has guards. The windows are locked. In the study, lights are on. predictable. Careless. He shifted. Within seconds, the wall was scaled. The garden, quiet.

He climbed the outer wall to the third storey, slipping past the guards like mist. There was a quiet click as the window lock gave way. The room was warm inside, with the scent of ancient books and cigars filling the air. Scribbling in a leather-bound journal, Venn sat at his desk. A secretive man. The Assassin entered the space. Venn said, I was wondering when you'd come, without looking.

He was halted by that. Few people calmly invited death, and even fewer spoke when they saw him. Venn went on, You've killed a lot of men. But who sent you, do you know? Quiet. Venn pivoted. You ought to inquire. The hand that feeds you might decide it's time for you to go one day. He tried to get closer by moving quickly, but Venn was prepared. Under his sleeve, a concealed sword flashed. The Assassin was stung by the slight nick it caused on his arm. In response, the Assassin knocked the blade out of Venn's hand and pinned him to the wall. Venn gasped as he replied, I've done horrible things, but so have you. What's the distinction? The Assassin paused for a second. He then stabbed Venn in the heart with the knife. After a single tremble, the man fell to the ground. The Assassin stood motionless in the ensuing quiet, breathing steadily and slowly. Although his arm hurt, the cut was flimsy. After wiping the blade, he disappeared into the rain after slipping back through the window. He put the picture of the burning village on the table back in his hiding place.

He did not stop staring at it. He never failed to hit. Never paused. However, Venn's remarks were heard over the rain. He grabbed the file. He turned to the last page for the first time. There was a name scribbled there. His own. The assassin gazed. Therefore, that was accurate. His feeding hand had turned. He slipped the blade back into its sheath, folded the paper, and got up. He had another target now.