The window shudders as thunder rolls over the crowded street, the relentless downpour turning its glass into a chaotic, amateur masterpiece. Despite the storm, the city hums with life—people dart across slick pavement, their dark umbrellas useless against the water splashing up from the puddles.
“So,” he starts, flipping through my file as if he doesn’t already know everything about me. “Dante,” he draws out my name with a mocking lilt, his fingers curling around his glass before he lifts it to his lips, taking a slow sip of whiskey.
The air in the restaurant is thick with tension—acidic, heavy, like a venomous cloud that sinks into the pit of my stomach. My gaze snaps to one of the staff members standing stiffly in thecorner, looking like a high-schooler caught in the act, too afraid to make a sound.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cane says, his attempt at nonchalance falling flat. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Not when every word, every action, screams that he doesn’t trust me or my abilities. “I just love privacy, that’s all. To him, it probably seems like… something darker,” he adds with a gruff laugh.
I shift my focus back to his face, but all I find is the same lazy ease. He wants me to remember that he booked the entire restaurant—to feel the weight of his money, power, and status—especially with his seven-foot-tall guards stationed near the entrance, their eyes never leaving my face.
Cane flicks his tongue over his stained lips, wiping away the last traces of strong alcohol before setting his glass down. He tilts his head, examining me like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.
To him, I am nothing but a clueless puppy, a desperate drifter with no understanding of how the real world works, playing with fire without realizing I’ll get burned. It’s the image I’ve spent years refining, crafting a backstory convincing enough to hold up under scrutiny. Every nervous glance, every restless shift in my seat, is deliberate.
I wear fear like a second skin—wide eyes, shaky breaths, the perfect mask of confusion and disorientation, a performance so convincing it swallows the truth whole. Beneath it, my real emotions simmer in silence.
Rage. A hunger to crash and burn.
I let my fingers fidget, my gaze dart around, feeding him every sign of anxiety. I need him to believe I’m unsure—that guilt and fear are twisting inside me, knotting into something so suffocating it makes me want to vomit.
“You’re a troubled orphan who left your home at an early age after killing your parents. You fought the guys and girlswho bullied you at school, killed one of your peers, got into countless fights in a center for troubled kids…” Cane says, his fingers gliding over the surface of my file. It all feels almost meaningless, like none of it really matters—as if even a lifethatfractured still isn’t enough to make someone an assassin.
“That’s correct,” I say, clearing my throat to shake off the rasp. I blink repeatedly before adding, “And I can do so much more. I can?—”
“You really think you can kill someone?” he interrupts, skepticism lacing his tone. His lips twitch, a smirk threatening to form as he gestures for the waiter without once breaking eye contact. “End a life in cold blood, even if they’ve done nothing to you? Kill a person who has a family, a life, someone who’s truly done nothing wrong? It’s different from your early-years rage.”
The waiter rushes over, his hand trembling as he tilts the bottle and pours Cane another glass of whiskey. When he finishes, he exhales—barely audible, but telling. His ocean-colored eyes dart to mine, panic swimming in them, while beads of sweat form along his forehead. I press my lips together and give the smallest shake of my head, silently telling him I don’t need a drink. He turns away, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor as he hurries off.
I expected Cane to choose something extravagant and ostentatious, so I can’t say I’m surprised. The restaurant radiates opulence, every detail meticulously crafted to exude sophistication and exclusivity. Velvet-upholstered chairs surround tables draped in pristine white linen, while crystal chandeliers dangle overhead. There’s no need for artificial lighting—the floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with the perfect amount of natural daylight.
Soft jazz hums from hidden speakers, the singer’s gentle words ironically at odds with our conversation.
“I know I can kill a person,” I finally say, building confidence into every word.
He laughs, louder and stronger than before. I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to lunge across the table and land a few punches to his smug face. Instead, I rest my arms on the surface, leaning in slightly, just enough to show him the sliver of courage I’m willing to reveal.
“I’m serious. I don’t care how innocent they are,” I continue, letting a small smile twist my face—one that matches the insanity of what I’m about to say. “I don’t care how much money they have or if they have a family, a life. These aren’t things a person like me ever thought about.”
He nods, but his expression tells me everything—I haven’t earned his trust, and I won’t for a long time. My test begins today. I’ll take whatever shit jobs he throws my way, prove myself, and force him to see I’m capable.
“These are strong words,” he muses, fingers curling around a freshly filled glass as he carelessly tosses my file to the side with his other hand. The pages dangle off the edge of the table, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and fix them.
“So many people have told me the same thing,” he continues, eyes rolling toward the ceiling, lost in thought. “And do you know how they acted when the time came?”
Not everyone has the guts to back up the words they spit out. Most people who talk—or even fantasize—about killing freeze the moment they actually get the chance. Taking a life isn’t as easy as they think, and I can only imagine how many people Cane has put down because of that hesitation.
The same fate awaits me if I back out of whatever task he’s about to give me. It would cost him nothing. He’d move on, find another candidate, and eventually, someone would get the job done.
But what Cane doesn’t know is that I’ve killed far more people than my file suggests. Assassins, ironically enough.
And now, to find and dismantle the organization that operates in the shadows—playing God with human lives and pulling the strings of a vast network of killers—I must become the very thing I despise.
“You can count on me,” I say, holding his stare with deliberate calm.
Something dark flickers in his eyes as he rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving it wild and jagged, like blackened thorns.
“I want this,” I insist, pushing forward like any eager rookie—blinded by possibilities and too naive to grasp the weight of the job. “And I can do much more than you think. I just need a chance.”
He studies me for a moment longer, his silence dragging on, heavy with thoughts he doesn’t voice. My impatience coils inside me like a gathering storm, one far fiercer than the rain and wind that batter the world outside.
