The city breathes in neon and exhales rot. Rivers is a place of decay masquerading as progress, a cancer wrapped in chrome. I see it all through the scope of my rifle, my vantage point high above the streets, crouched on the rooftop of a forgotten building. It smells like old grease and rain-soaked concrete up here, but I don’t mind. This is where I’m comfortable—in the shadows, above the filth, watching and waiting.
They call me Silencer. The name fits. I’m the ghost that moves between breaths, the specter no one sees coming until it’s too late. I don’t work for glory or recognition. I do what needs doing. The targets? Corrupt officials, power-hungry executives, anyone who thinks they can profit off the suffering of others. Tonight’s target is no different.
Gareth Holloway. Kisonic’s favored middleman for off-the-books dealings, from illegal cybernetics trafficking to supplying muscle for their under-the-table operations. He’s been on my radar for weeks. It wasn’t easy to find him; he’s a slippery bastard. But when you know where to look, where to squeeze… people talk.
Through the scope, I see him now, pacing in a dimly lit office on the fifteenth floor of a glass-and-steel monstrosity. The lights of downtown Rivers reflect off the windows, casting distorted patterns over the room. Holloway looks tense. Good. He should be. Even the most oblivious scum in this city have started to realize that the walls are closing in.
The wind shifts, brushing cold fingers against my neck. I adjust my grip on the rifle, feeling the familiar weight settle into place. Every breath slows. The world narrows to the rhythm of my heartbeat, the gentle sway of the crosshairs as I center them over Holloway’s chest. He’s talking to someone—arguing, from the looks of it—but I can’t make out the words. Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it won’t matter much longer.
My comm crackles softly in my ear. It’s Whisper—my only contact. She speaks only in text, never voice, but I’ve come to understand her tone through the rhythm of her messages.
Target confirmed. No last-minute complications.
I tap twice on the comm, signaling my acknowledgment. No words needed. I’m already committed.
Holloway turns, his profile illuminated briefly by the light of his desk holo-display. I exhale slowly, the scope tracking the movement. I wait for the perfect moment—not because I need it, but because precision is everything. The best shot is one that never leaves room for questions.
Wait for it… The mantra echoes in my head, steady and cold. My finger tightens on the trigger, just a hair’s breadth away from the break.
Suddenly, a movement catches my eye. Holloway’s door opens, and a man steps inside—a bodyguard, judging by the bulk and the dead stare in his eyes. Augmented, most likely. Holloway stops pacing, gesturing angrily. The bodyguard listens without expression, his arms crossed. Not ideal, but it doesn’t change the mission.
I can take them both if it comes to it.
The bodyguard shifts, placing himself just in front of Holloway. I don’t like it. I grind my teeth and wait. Patience has saved my life more times than I can count, but it doesn’t make the waiting easier. Seconds stretch into minutes. I make micro-adjustments to account for the wind, the angle. Breathing slow, steady. Holloway turns back to his desk. The bodyguard moves to the side.
Now.
The shot is quiet—a whisper in the wind. The silencer does its job. Holloway jerks backward, a bloom of red spreading across his chest. The bodyguard reacts, drawing a weapon and scanning the room, but it’s already over. My second shot takes him through the temple. Clean. Efficient. No wasted movement.
I lower the rifle, exhaling slowly. Two lives snuffed out in the time it takes to blink. The mission is complete, but the work is far from done. I pack up quickly, methodically. I don’t linger. Never linger. The city moves around me, unaware of the two lives lost in that glass room. Unaware of the change that ripple might cause—or of the man who caused it.
My comm crackles again. Another text from Whisper.
Eyes are moving. You have five minutes.
N.E.O. patrols, no doubt. I tap twice in response, already on the move. The rifle goes into the case, broken down into unrecognizable parts. My movements are practiced, efficient. This isn’t my first rooftop, and it won’t be my last.
I cross the rooftops like a shadow, my feet finding purchase on slick metal and crumbling stone. The city’s heartbeat pulses below me—chaotic, relentless. I don’t pause to admire the view. There’s a fire escape ahead. I take it down to the alleyway, moving swiftly but quietly, each step deliberate. In this line of work, even the smallest mistake can cost you everything.
The ground greets me with the stench of rot and old rainwater. I pull up my hood, melting into the darkness. N.E.O. drones sweep overhead, their searchlights carving through the night. I keep my head down, my pace steady, my breaths measured. In moments, they’re gone, and I’m just another shadow among many.
Holloway’s death will send shockwaves through the underworld. Kisonic will scramble, try to tighten their grip, lash out at anyone they think might have information. Good. The more desperate they become, the more mistakes they’ll make.
I step into a narrow alley, the noise of the city fading behind me. My work isn’t about the thrill of the hunt or the satisfaction of a kill. It’s about something far colder, far more necessary. It’s about thinning the herd, one corrupt soul at a time.
There will always be another target. Another name on the list. But for tonight, Rivers sleeps a little less comfortably, and that’s exactly
how I like it.
Silencer out.
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