Shortly after Number 3 and Winter's Fight...
The dimly lit office cast long shadows across polished mahogany furniture. A businessman sat behind an imposing desk, his fingers steepled as he regarded the two figures before him—one in a beanie and shades leaning against the wall, the other with striking red hair and dressed in all black.
"I can't believe I have to rely on the number one and two assassins of the first division," the businessman said, irritation dripping from every word.
Number 2 slammed his fist against the desk. "Where is Number 3? What did you do to her?"
The businessman chuckled, shaking his head dismissively. "She and you returned failing your mission. I chose to punish her—end of story."
"Is she alive?" Number 2 growled, his voice rising with barely contained rage as his fist crashed against the desk again. "ANSWER ME!"
"Dumbass," Number 1 whispered under his breath, already knowing his partner had made a fatal mistake.
The businessman's smile grew colder as he leaned forward, fingers drumming against the polished wood. "Your concern for your fellow assassin is... touching. Perhaps that's why you both failed. Too much heart." His eyes glinted in the dim light. "Let me remind you, Number 2, that you have one last chance to make things right."
"I don't care about chances," Number 2 snarled. "I want answers!"
"What you want is irrelevant," the businessman replied, his tone sharp as a blade. "What matters is what I require. The objective has changed—I want Winter, dead or alive."
Number 1 finally pushed off from the wall, adjusting his shades. "Let's get going dumbass"
The businessman's smile widened leaning back in his chair. "At least one of you fools have a little common since."
The two assassins promptly left the office, their footsteps echoing down the dimly lit hallway. Outside, a military-grade truck awaited them, a man in a crisp black uniform standing beside it, nodded before opening the door for them.
Number 1 pulled out a cigarette as they entered the vehicle. "You know," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, "in our line of work, we don't get to care about other people. Hell, we barely get to care about ourselves." He smiled, though there was no warmth in it. "And even then, that's iffy."
Number 2 remained silent, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. All that rage, that burning need for answers about Number 3, seemed ready to burst out at any moment—just waiting for a target.
"Oh yeah," Number 1 continued, flicking ash out the window, "I haven't even gotten a chance to meet the guy yet." His voice carried an unsettling note of excitement. "Anyway, it'll take a few days to get there, so focus on the task at hand, will ya?"
He blew out another cloud of smoke while Number 2 continued his brooding silence. Finally, Number 2 turned to their driver.
"Move out," he ordered, his voice tight with suppressed emotion.