The doors slide open.
He’s standing right there.
Centered. Still. Hands relaxed at his sides like he’s waiting for a bus instead of me.
Rajan Gurung.
Nepalese. Gurkha. Knife man. The kind of assassin people argue about on forums like he’s a ghost story instead of a breathing problem.
“Hey, Rajan.”
My gun is already up and I shoot him dead center in the forehead.
No flinch. No dodge. No drama.
He drops straight back, skull cracking against the floor with a dull, final sound.
I step out of the elevator over his body and don’t look back.
The hallway is pristine. Corporate. Quiet in the way only very expensive buildings are. I turn down the corridor toward the core, toward the humming heart where steel and power and ego intersect.
This is what I came for.
I shrug out of my bag, kneel, and unzip the rear compartment.
Explosives greet me like old friends.
I start assembling the first charge. Hands steady. Motions automatic. Gum popping softly in the silence.
“Grim,” I say. “How’s it looking out there?”
“Program’s live. I’m scrubbing backward throughtoday now. I’ll find the owner of the shoe.”
“Good.”
I keep working. Detonator seated. Cord measured. Timer checked. Gum pops again.
“Any new company I should know about?”
There’s a pause.
Too long.
“…Actually.”
I stop for half a second. Just enough to know I won’t like this.
“What?”
“I didn’t know they were real. You know? I thought they were just… urban legends.”
I finish sealing the charge and set it gently against the column.
“Grim,” I say, standing. “Get to the point.”
“It’s the Onryo.”
I still, just for a beat.
