He ended thousands.
He orphaned countless.
His name was Viktor Thorne.
Some whispered it was a title earned in blood.
Others claimed he carved it into the memories of those who witnessed his craft—witnesses who no longer drew breath.
But one truth remained absolute—
Viktor Thorne would be remembered as the deadliest assassin humanity had ever spawned.
---
Arctic winds shrieked across the Matterhorn's peak, carrying razor-sharp ice crystals that kissed the barrel of Viktor's CheyTac M200 Intervention. His scarred fingers, hardened by three decades of lethal precision, made microscopic adjustments to the Schmidt & Bender scope. From this precipice—4,200 meters above sea level, wedged between granite teeth that bit into his ribs—the Villa Serpentine appeared smaller than a chess piece.
Silver streaked Viktor's black hair like lightning frozen in time. His face, a battlefield of old wounds and deeper scars, remained stone-still as he calculated atmospheric pressure, humidity, and gravitational drift. The temperature registered minus fourteen Celsius—frigid enough to shift bullet trajectory by half a hand's width.
'3,100 meters to target. Beyond conventional wisdom, even for a .408 CheyTac round.'
Behind him, Selena adjusted her position, breath crystallizing in the brutal cold. Twenty-six, raven-haired, with hands still soft enough to betray her relative inexperience. Talented. In theory.
"Impossible," she breathed, field glasses locked on the villa's marble terrace. "Even with the CheyTac, that distance exceeds maximum effective range. The drop would be catastrophic. You'd need to account for—"
"Quiet." Viktor's voice carried the weight of finality, nothing more. His gaze never wavered from the scope—a corpulent oligarch with thinning hair and an ostentatious emerald signet ring. The man's meaty palm rested possessively on the shoulder of a trembling girl, barely fifteen, her dark eyes hollow with terror.
Viktor's breathing became metronomic. One inhalation every fifty seconds. His pulse—a steady thirty-eight beats per minute—barely whispered in his chest.
Selena studied him, her green eyes narrowing. "Target verified. Dimitri Kozlov. Russian arms dealer. Sixty-three confirmed trafficking victims, all children." She hesitated. "The girl wasn't in our intelligence brief."
Viktor offered no acknowledgment. The crosshairs settled on a point eight inches above Kozlov's temple, compensating for the impossible ballistic arc.
'Inhale. Steady. Exhale to half-capacity.'
His finger embraced the trigger with surgical delicacy.
'Pressure builds. Six pounds. Seven. Eight.'
The CheyTac thundered, its recoil hammering his shoulder with bone-crushing force. Yet Viktor remained motionless. Unblinking.
Through the scope, 3.2 seconds later, he observed as Kozlov's skull exploded in a crimson aurora. The arms dealer's corpse tumbled sideways, leaving the girl standing paralyzed, painted with her captor's life.
Selena's composure cracked. "Christ almighty. That's unprecedented. Three thousand one hundred meters. You actually..." Her voice dropped to a whisper of awe. "The legends were understated."
Viktor was already breaking down the rifle, each movement economical, automatic. The kill represented task completion, nothing more.
"Eight additional traffickers remain in that compound," Selena observed, scanning the villa. "We could eliminate them all. These demons deserve—"
"We are not saviors." Viktor's words severed her righteousness like a scalpel. "Nor humanitarian workers. We are death merchants. The definition is in the profession. Killers for currency."
He secured the dismantled CheyTac in an anonymous case. "The Syndicate compensates us for designated eliminations. Nothing beyond."
Selena prepared to protest, then stiffened. Her hand flew to the comm unit at her belt. "Contact. Eastern approach. Multiple signatures."
Viktor was already repositioning, scope trained on the approaching formation. Four armored vehicles, unmarked tactical configuration. "FSB Counter-Terror Division." His tone remained conversational, as though commenting on cloud formations. "Our position is compromised."
"How? Extraction coordinates are three kilometers southeast. We'll never reach them on foot." Fear crept into Selena's voice as she scrambled for their gear.
Viktor surveyed their environment, his mind processing variables, calculating probabilities, mapping escape routes. Wind patterns. Rock composition. Remaining daylight.
"The maintenance shaft," he stated, shouldering the rifle case. "From the abandoned copper mine. It connects beneath the southern face."
"That's not documented anywhere," Selena objected.
"It wouldn't be." Viktor was already moving, his footprints in the snow forming an almost geometric pattern. "Main access collapsed in 2001. But there's a ventilation shaft three hundred meters northwest. Smugglers used it during the Balkan conflicts."
Selena stared after him. "How could you possibly know such details?"
Viktor didn't respond. Didn't pause. Every step calculated, purposeful.
The concealed entrance materialized exactly as promised—a jagged crack between basalt formations, hidden by decades of alpine growth. As they vanished inside, the first rounds sparked off stone inches from Selena's skull.
The shaft plunged into absolute darkness, reeking of copper deposits and stagnant moisture. Viktor navigated its labyrinthine passages without hesitation, guided only by a tactical penlight's faint beam.
"Structural failure is imminent in this section," he announced flatly, indicating a rotting timber support. "Follow my exact path."
Three minutes later, the tunnel behind them imploded with deafening violence, entombing their pursuers.
"You calculated that collapse," Selena said, limestone dust coating her black hair. It wasn't speculation.
Viktor's expression remained unreadable in the filtered light. "Probability was acceptable."
They surfaced as darkness claimed the mountain, three kilometers from where the FSB continued their futile search. Forty minutes later, they approached the modest inn in Zermatt that served as their sanctuary.
---
The room was spartan—single bed, worn sofa, walls thin enough that neighboring conversations bled through like ghosts. Viktor secured the perimeter, swept for surveillance equipment, then occupied himself with cleaning the rifle components while Selena cleansed herself of the mission's grime.
Steam escaped as she emerged from the cramped bathroom, hotel terry cloth wrapped around her form. Wet hair cascaded over her shoulders as she noticed room service had arrived—Barolo wine, aged cheese, dark bread.
Viktor stood sentinel at the window, cigarette smoke spiraling toward the water-stained ceiling. His silhouette carved sharp angles against the parted curtain through which he monitored the street below.
"How do you achieve it?" Selena asked, reaching for the wine. "How does one become legendary?"
Viktor exhaled smoke, his gaze never abandoning the street. "You're untested. Focus on mastering fundamentals."
"Fundamentals?" She laughed bitterly, pouring wine. "I graduated valedictorian. Perfect marks in precision shooting, infiltration, and close-quarters combat. I can disassemble a Kalashnikov in eighteen seconds and identify seventy-one poisons by scent alone." The glass caught ambient light as she raised it. "Hardly untested."
Viktor turned, his weathered features half-masked by streetlight shadows. For the first time, he met her gaze directly. "Talented. In theory."
His eyes flicked to her wine glass, then returned to hers. "This profession demands something most lack. Instinct."
"Instinct?" Disbelief creased her brow. "If anything, assassination requires suppressing instinct."
"Not emotional instinct." Viktor moved from the window, cigarette dangling from scarred lips. "Survival instinct. I could end you immediately." His tone remained clinical, observational. "That glass might contain ricin, and you'd never realize until organ failure began. Your Walther P99 sits in your bag, four meters distant. You're exposed. Defenseless."
He gestured toward the wine bottle. "Master the fundamentals. It's sufficient for survival."
Selena's grip tightened on the glass stem. "What follows now? Another contract?"
"Such questions violate protocol."
"Do you have loved ones waiting? Someone who fears for your safety during assignments?"
Viktor's eyes, gray as storm clouds, revealed nothing. "Classified information. You understand protocol."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the wall clock's mechanical rhythm.
"No," he finally admitted. "No loved ones."
The wine bottle chimed against the glass table as he set it down. "The Syndicate is my family. My handler discovered me as a child, military identification with my name. Nothing more."
Selena settled on the bed's edge, towel secured. "This is your final contract, isn't it? I've heard whispers."
A barely perceptible nod. "Retiring after this. Perhaps Australia. Live whatever remains under manufactured identity." He directed smoke toward the ceiling. "Teaching combat arts. I've mastered eighty-three distinct disciplines."
"Eighty-three," Selena repeated softly. "Naturally."
She traced her glass rim with one finger. "My true name is Jane," she offered suddenly. "Jane Williams. My parents died in the Moscow theater siege when I was eight. The Syndicate found me in state care four years later."
Her eyes found his. "What's yours? Your real name?"
"Viktor Thorne is the only identity I possess." He lifted the wine bottle directly to his lips, draining half its contents in measured swallows.
After arranging his tactical jacket on the floor beside the sofa, he reclined, hands folded across his chest. "Extraction team arrives at 0530. Be prepared."
Selena—Jane—nodded, moving to the bed. She extinguished the lamp, surrendering the room to darkness pierced only by Viktor's cigarette ember.
"Sleep well," she whispered.
No response. Only controlled breathing.
Minutes passed. Perhaps fifteen. Perhaps forty.
"Viktor Thorne," Jane's voice sliced through darkness, soft yet crystalline. "Forgive me."
The fire in Viktor's stomach erupted without warning. Searing, vicious, spreading like liquid metal through his organs. He rolled from the sofa, muscles already convulsing.
His mind—conditioned through decades of discipline—catalogued the symptoms with detached precision even as his body betrayed him.
'Polonium-210. Metallic taste masked by wine's tannins.'
He dragged himself toward the light switch, each movement pure agony. The door—he had to reach the door. His fingers clawed at the wall, found the switch.
Light exploded across the room, revealing Jane standing beside the bed, still wrapped in terry cloth, watching him with arctic eyes.
The room keycard gleamed in her palm.
'Rookie error,' he thought as vision began fragmenting. 'Never verified her glass was clean.'
Memory replayed with crystalline clarity—she'd poured wine, then placed her glass aside while reaching for a napkin. Four seconds beyond his observation. More than sufficient.
"The glass was misdirection," Jane said, reading his thoughts. "The bottle was contaminated before room service delivery. I compensated the server."
Viktor's legs ceased responding. He collapsed against the wall, muscles seizing.
"You spoke truth about one thing," she continued, approaching with measured steps. "I'm talented in theory. But you—you're mythology. The man who never failed. Never missed. Never fell."
She crouched before him, her face centimeters from his. "Until tonight."
Blood vessels in Viktor's eyes began rupturing, painting his vision crimson. His throat swelled, stealing speech.
'If I could stand now...'
His fingers twitched helplessly against carpet.
'If I could just reach her...'
His encyclopedic anatomical knowledge presented twenty-three methods to kill her using only his hands. All meaningless now.
"The Syndicate didn't dispatch me," Jane said, rising gracefully. "I volunteered. Do you recall Prague? 2019? An economist named Alexei Petrov?"
Recognition flickered in Viktor's dying eyes.
"My father," she whispered. "The theater siege was fabrication. You eliminated him through his study window while I practiced piano in the next room."
She turned away, collecting her possessions. "You were correct about something else. We're not saviors or humanitarians. We're death merchants. The definition is absolute."
Darkness crept inward from Viktor's peripheral vision. His heartbeat, once so controlled, now stuttered chaotically. Final breaths rattled through his constricted throat.
'The irony,' he mused as consciousness began dissolving. 'Ended by an amateur...'
As his eyes closed forever, an unexpected sensation enveloped him—not death's cold embrace, but something warm, encompassing. A pull toward brilliant light beyond the hotel room's stained ceiling.
The deadliest assassin humanity had ever known felt himself ascending, drawn into radiance.
The greatest shadow would soon walk in a world of magic and monsters.
Where a heroine awaited his blade.