The hum of the broken ceiling fan was the only sound in the room. It clicked in rhythm, like a slow death rattle. Jakob Cain sat in the wobbly motel chair, hunched forward slightly, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey in one hand, a pistol resting near the edge of the table. His amber eyes stared at the wall, unfocused.
You don't walk away from this life. Not really.
The neon motel sign outside blinked like a dying heartbeat, red and blue leaking through cracked blinds. His reflection ghosted in the window — salt-and-pepper hair, deep lines carved into his face, a body that had survived everything except peace.
Then came the silence. The kind that was too quiet.
A footstep. Gravel crunch.
He was moving before he realized it, instincts dragging his aging body upright, pain flaring through old wounds. The first shot tore through the door, exploding the chain lock. The second hit the TV behind him as he dove sideways, shoulder hitting the floor hard.
Too slow. Too loud. Too damn old.
He grabbed the pistol and rolled behind the bed. Shadows flooded into the room. Three of them, maybe four. Light combat boots, cheap rifles, masks. Young. Hungry.
Another shot clipped the mattress. Wood splinters rained down like ash.
"You should've stayed gone, Shade," one of them called. Cocky.
They didn't know. Not really. They thought they were making a name for themselves.
He grunted, biting back the groan as he pulled himself up, blood soaking into his sleeve. He fired once — clean. One of them dropped.
The others scattered.
Amateurs.
But it didn't matter. His heartbeat was a drum in his ears, too fast. His lungs burned. His vision blurred.
This is it. This is how it ends. Not in a blaze. Not in glory. Just... worn down.
His knees hit the hallway outside. Gunfire cracked behind him. He stumbled, half-blind, through emergency exits, down metal stairs that echoed like memory.
Flashbacks: Becoming Shade
A younger Jakob Cain. Twenty-three. Slick black gloves. Blade to a man's throat in a Hong Kong penthouse. Silent, perfect, untraceable.
A decade later. Istanbul. Rooftop. Three guards, one diplomat, one bullet. Wind in his hair. No emotion.
Paris. Blood on marble. A child is crying in the next room. His hands were trembling for the first time.
Moscow. The job that earned him the name Shade. No witnesses. No cameras. No noise. Just a clean, cold shadow slipping away into snow.
Each kill, each mission, each vanishing left something behind. Sanity. Sleep. Compassion.
Back to Present: Bleeding in the Alley
Jakob crashes against a dumpster in the back alley, gasping. His gun is gone. His vision tunnels.
He thinks of the first rule he ever wrote for himself.
One job. One shot. No mistakes.
Tonight, he'd broken all three.
The rain begins to fall — soft at first, then harder, washing blood down the side of his arm.
He slumps against the cold brick wall, breathing ragged, vision going grey.
Maybe this is the out I never earned...
His head tilts back, eyes half-closed.
And that's when the headlights cut through the alley.
A sleek black car. No engine noise. Just presence. Familiar.
The door opens. High heels click.
He doesn't need to look.
"Morgan," he mutters, the voice of a ghost.
"Still alive. Barely," she says coolly.
"That's a compliment?"
"Hardly."
She walks toward him, her silhouette haloed by the car's lights — black cocktail dress, sea-blue eyes, always in control.
The alley stank of oil and wet rot. Concrete slick beneath his boots, blood trickling down his side, a slow and steady leak of life. Jakob Cain—Shade—moved like a man carved out of exhaustion, each step heavier than the last.
The river was just ahead.
He knew this city's underbelly like his own regrets. This spot? Old exit route. Burned years ago. But tonight, it was all he had left.
A soft click echoed behind him.
He didn't need to turn.
"You always were a bastard," Morgan's voice said, cool and unhurried. "Sloppy now, but still a bastard."
He stopped, rain soaking his gray coat. A breath was drawn in. Shaky, but steady.
"Took you long enough," he muttered. "I thought you'd kill me at the motel."
"That would've been too easy," she said, stepping into the light. Her pistol gleamed, steady in her hand. Her black cocktail dress clung to her like vengeance. "I wanted you lucid. I wanted you to know."
Shade turned slowly. His amber eyes met her sea-blue ones.
"Know what?"
"That it's over. That you lost." She raised the gun, finger tightening.
He didn't flinch.
"You always were dramatic."
"And you always walked away." Her voice cracked, just slightly, as she remembered a time before. "This time, you don't."
A pause.
Then a bitter, thin smile touched his lips.
"You're right."
And before she could react, he stepped back—
Right off the edge.
Into the river.
!!SPLASH!!
The cold hit like a hammer to the chest.
His body locked, lungs screamed. The current dragged him under like a vengeful hand. Darkness closed in — not peaceful, but indifferent. He saw flashes: a hallway in Venice. Blood on white tiles in Tokyo. A laughing woman in Marseille. A child's eyes he never forgot.
He didn't fight the current. Didn't swim. He just… let go.
Maybe this is it. Finally, the fade-out. The curtain call.
But fate, as always, had other plans.