The landing waited at the top.Four bedrooms.Two bathrooms.I already knew where everyone slept.
First door on the right.
The handle turned without resistance.I slipped inside.
Not a child’s room—young adult, early twenties.Posters everywhere, game controllers on the floor, clothes half folded on a chair, gift wrap left out mid-task.He sprawled across the bed, snoring lightly, completely unaware of the world outside his head.
I tracked the rise and fall of his breathing, the complete absence of stress in his expression.A normal life.College, friends, holidays, family dinners.A future.
None of that changed the next step.
The suppressor touched his temple.One pull.One sharp jolt across his body.Then stillness.Blood soaked into the pillow.I checked his pulse—habit, not doubt—and moved on.
My heartbeat stayed level, my grip solid.I didn’t need to shove emotion down anymore.Jobs turned everything inside me quiet.
Second bedroom across the hall.
She slept in the center of the queen bed.Perfume lingered—lavender, vanilla.A book lay beside a pair of reading glasses.Old movie on the television, muted.Her breathing remained deep and unbroken.
She never woke.
Clean shot.Clean exit.A physical reaction hit the mattress—small shift, natural reflex.I pulled the blanket higher, not out of compassion but routine.Bodies belong to crime scenes after I’m done, not to me.
Two down.
Master bedroom next.
Empty.
I frowned.No miscalculation allowed.So I rechecked the remaining rooms.
Bathroom—empty.Home office—empty.Final bedroom at the end of the hall.
A small wreath hung on that door—real foliage, not the plastic downstairs.Fresh pine scent struck me harder than expected.
I pushed in.
Bookshelves filled an entire wall.Sketches littered the desk.Photographs covered a corkboard—friends, travel, sunlight, laughter.A life built on creativity, not power.
She slept on her side.Late twenties maybe.Dark hair across the pillow.Plaid pajama pants, worn shirt, open book fallen beside her hand.
The daughter.Mia.
I crossed to the bed and raised the weapon.
Something stalled the motion—not hesitation born from softness, not sentiment.Something more primal.A shift in energy.A detail my brain refused to gloss over.Real in every way that mattered, forged from her own choices.Not part of her father’s empire and no accessory to anyone’s power.And she sure as hell wasn’t a civilian shield.
A person.
I cut off that line of thought immediately.I didn’t get to humanize targets.Humanizing targets made corpses feel personal.
I pressed the suppressor against her temple.
Trigger pulled.
Her breathing halted after one final inhale.Blood seeped across the white pillowcase, staining it fast.I watched her face, waiting for any twitch of life.Nothing.
I stepped back.
