No exceptions. No bending. No excuses. You break it, you’re done. Most assassins would rather die than cross that line.
Most.
A sharp sting rises in my chest, something old and unwelcome, and I force it back down before the name attached to it can break through.
I focus on the screen instead, scanning for the mistake.
There has to be one.
The contract from last night should be here. I logged the hit. Accepted it through the official channel. Claimed it within the window. Retinal verification, clean execution. Nothing sloppy, nothing suspicious.
I open my kill history and it’s fucking empty.
Not partially. Not corrupted.
Gone.
As if I never accepted the contract. Never confirmed it. Never touched the man who’s currently six feet under the dirt outside town.
My chest tightens.
“How the hell did?—”
My phone vibrates in my hand again, harder this time, as if the Guild app itself is frantic. The message boards are exploding—notifications piling faster than I can swipe.
Assassins planning meetups.
Calling dibs.
Splitting travel routes.
Placing bets on top of the bounty like this is some kind of sick tournament.
And the number… the bounty itself is obscene.
A figure so big it feels like an insult to the entire industry. Designed to tempt every hunter alive. Designed to make them sprint.
The kill needs to be confirmed within two days.
A guarantee the pursuit will be immediate and vicious.
My mouth goes dry.
“Fuck.”
The posting time catches my eye.
One hour ago.
Which means the hunters are already moving.
Already packing.
Already tracking.
And I’ve been unconscious in a hotel bed, drooling on the pillow while the world geared up to put me in the ground.
Before I can think, the screen refreshes. Everything freezes for a moment—then collapses outward, dumping me unceremoniously back at the login page.
