I keep walking like I didn’t clock him from fifty feet out but internally, every instinct wakes the hell up.
Fine. One assassin is manageable. Let’s see who else is here though.
I catch another across the street.
Young, twitchy, watching the crowd instead of blending with it, trying too hard not to stare in my direction. His jacket hangs too heavy on one side—gun weight. Fucking rookies. Bringing a god damn cannon to a knife fight.
I don’t look directly at either of them.
I don’t need to.
I keep moving, sliding through the pedestrian flow, letting the shifting bodies cloak me. The scent of grilled skewers and fresh bread blows through the air—normal, comforting. The kind of morning that should’ve been peaceful.
Instead, every step feels like nudging closer to a tripwire.
The station is one long block away now.
My fingers drift casually toward my jacket zipper—not to open it, but to feel for the shoulder holster beneath. The market street narrows up ahead. Vendors call out deals in rapid-fire Japanese. Bells chime softly from a passing bicycle.
Behind me, footsteps quicken.
Ahead, someone shifts position.
I feel it before I see him—the third assassin stepping just slightly out of place. He’s by a kiosk selling tourist trinkets: keychains, phone charms, tiny fans. Too still. Too centered. Waiting for me to walk straight into range.
Shit.
I keep walking.
Three more steps.
Four.
I wait as long as I can.
Longer than I should.
Then he steps into my path.
A polite little move.
A soft smile.
A click of readiness behind his eyes and all bets are off.
He steps out—too confident, too certain he’s read my approach. He expects me to hesitate. Maybe veer. Maybe widen my path so he can corner me cleanly.
I don’t give him any of that.
My pace shifts—not a stop, not a flinch. Just a slight quickening of the last two steps that throws his timing off. His hand twitches toward his jacket and that’s all I need.
I move twice at once.
My right hand flashes up, the thin blade of my multi-tool snapping open with a whisper. I jab it into the soft triangle of his neck—fast, deep, precise—right through the artery. No flourish. No wasted motion.
His breath catches wetly.
At the exact same moment, my left hand clamps around his gun hand. Four fingers snap in a clean, efficient sequence, each break sharp enough to make his knees buckle. He can’t shoot. Can’t scream. He’s too busy choking on his own blood, eyes going wide as he tries to process what just happened.
