I set the rifle down, lock the bipod, stretch out on the tar paper, and let my heartbeat settle. The metal’s cold, the city’s loud, but through the scope, everything gets quiet. Every detail sharpens. This is where patience matters—where the first shadow is never the right one, and the real threats are the ones who know how not to look like threats at all.
I pan the crowd slowly, scanning for tells. Guildmembers are predators in plainclothes—always a little too relaxed or a little too tense. The eyes don’t linger; they sweep. Hands never stray far from pockets or bags. They never cluster unless they’re about to move. They don’t check their phones—they check reflections. Not the sort of people who get lost in a city—they’re the ones who come here to hunt.
I spot a man standing in the shade of a closed bodega, not smoking, not really waiting. He’s not watching the street—he’s watching for what crosses it. Another perched at a bus stop, reading a newspaper nobody reads anymore, shoes too nice for the neighborhood. One more, pretending toargue with someone over Bluetooth, but the conversation is dead air, all for show. His eyes are always on the reflections, never on the street.
It takes a certain paranoia to spot them—exile sharpens it, turns it into instinct. Anyone could cash in an open contract on an exile. Anywhere but neutral ground, like the Kurohana Palace. In two days, Saint and I will be there, where the only law is the one that keeps bodies off the floor. Until then, it’s just open season.
I breathe steady, finger loose beside the trigger, letting my pulse sync with the city’s. I watch. I wait. That’s how you stay alive: see everything, move only when it matters, and never blink first.
I don’t stop at street level. Any fool can watch a sidewalk. Guildmembers love the high ground—snipers especially. You can’t survive exile without learning to think above the city. I scan the rooftops, the windows, every line of sight I’d choose myself.
Most snipers want open lines, clear sight, nothing in the way. Me? I like the places nobody else would bother with—the ones that look impossible, the ones that would ruin an average man’s shot. That’s why no one ever finds me. While the rest take predictable perches, I settle where no one thinks to look. I’ve always been good at making the impossible shot.
I scan the city from my blind, eyes tracking rooftops, windows, fire escapes—anywhere a hunter would nest. If there’s another rifle out here, I’ll find it.
I search the upper stories with my own eyes first—never give your position away with a glint of glass. The first rooftop I check is clean, empty HVAC units and gull droppings.The next—just a sun-bleached lawn chair, nobody home.
The third place, though—a set of office windows in a half-abandoned brick building across the avenue. Fourth floor, corner suite. Shades drawn, except one, left just high enough for a barrel.
Colt Harrington. The Texan. Looks like he crawled out of the mess Saint dropped on him at the hot dog factory—barely a scratch.
He’s set up in the corner, profile taut, back pressed against the frame so nothing of him shows but the barest sliver of shoulder and cheek. Rifle braced, scope to his eye, everything about him coiled and efficient. No wasted movement. The hat’s pulled low, not for style but to cut reflection, his mouth set in a thin, humorless line.
He sweeps the street with slow, methodical passes, pausing just long enough on each potential mark. Even from here, I can see the calculation—every twitch, every shift. He’s not sightseeing. He’s hunting. Tracking the same suspects I am, maybe waiting for Saint to show, definitely holding a grudge.
Colt Harrington: every inch the pro. Swagger buried under discipline, but make no mistake—it’s still there, simmering. Just waiting for a reason to show itself.
Let’s see if we can tone that down a little.
I settle the scope on him for a beat, smirk curling at my mouth. I could put one through his left eye, watch him slouch right out of that chair. But I can’t kill him yet. Not until it matters.
Instead, I make a tiny adjustment—slide the crosshairs down to the street, dialing in for wind, timing, and distance.Colt won’t see me, but he’ll know someone’s close. Sometimes you have to remind a rival you’re still in the game.
I wait, patient as stone. When the perfect moment comes, I’ll take the shot. Not to kill—just to say hello. Let the rats know there’s a bigger snake in the grass tonight.
I watch the street. Three men who’d be predators on any other day, any other block. This afternoon, under my eye, they’re just meat waiting for gravity.
The sun is starting to slip behind the buildings, shadows stretching out long and merciful. That’s good. It’ll help. I wait, patient, tracking their lazy circles. Two start moving, trying hard to look natural and failing—sweat in their posture, nerves in their step. The third sits, just as I predicted, the perfect mark. The other two adjust without meaning to, drawn into the geometry only a sniper sees.
I adjust my aim, let my breath slow. Wait… and wait… wait a little more… The city hushes for a beat.
Then—with one squeeze a single bullet punches through all three skulls—clean, sharp, blood misting the summer air—and slams into the red brick behind them. It’s art. Art that I don’t bother to admire it.
Already, my rifle swings up, sight snapping back to Colt. He’s frozen, just for a second, caught as his mind catches up with what just happened.
I steady, inhale, fire.
Second shot, clean as a promise—right through Tex’s beloved Stetson. The hat flips twice, carried by the shockwave, landing on the far side of his perch. A warning.
I’m moving before the first scream slices the street. Rifle half broken down, kit tight against my chest. I don’t run. There’s no need. By the time anyone realizeswhat’s happened, I’m gone—already a ghost, already halfway back to Frank’s, the only echo my kill shot and Colt’s ego bleeding out on the fourth floor perch.
Frank’s locking everything down, chains rattling, grumbling about under appreciation. Saint leans against the wall, arms crossed, legs bare beneath a dress that begs for trouble—hits just above the knee, bright against all this gray. It’s begging for tequila and to be spun across a dance floor.
“You have a date tonight, Pícarita?” I ask, voice low.
She cuts me a look. “I could ask you the same thing.”
I glance at Frank, fire off in Spanish, “You didn’t tell her I left?”
