The room was dimly lit. The curtains were open, letting the moonlight seep into the room.
It was… ordinary. Almost insultingly so. A wardrobe hunched in the corner, a desk buried in clutter, a wide mirror catching the faint shimmer of night. In the middle stood the bed.
The bedroom was occupied by two people.
A person and a corpse to be exact.
The corpse lay neatly on the bed, an old man in white pajamas. His expression was gentle, almost childlike, as though he had been dreaming of something kind before death came.
But the dark, wet hole in the middle of his forehead told the truth. Blood oozed from the wound, trickling down to the side of his face and finally staining the white blankets crimson.
Across the room, a figure stood motionless.
He was dressed in shadow: a fitted shirt beneath a short jacket, black trousers tucked into heavy boots.
His hair was short and messy, like he had run a hand through it one too many times. His sharp green eyes caught the faint glow — one glinting clear, the other clouded and unfocused. Low cheekbones, a clean jawline; handsome, in a way that felt almost inconvenient.
His expression was unreadable.
However the most important thing was that he was holding a gun with a suspensor attached to it.
'Job done.'
He slid the gun into his jacket, gloved fingers brushing against the familiar fabric. His gaze swept the room with slow precision, searching for any trace he might have left behind. Nothing.
He stepped into the hallway without a sound.
The old apartment complex sighed around him — pipes groaning behind thin walls, a loose stair rail trembling under the faintest touch. No cameras. No curious neighbors awake. This one had been simple
The man was a paid killer. As long as the money was enough he would do the job flawlessly.
However he never knew the reason behind it.
Why did he kill people?
Was it because it was the easy way around to get money? Or did he get some sick pleasure from killing people?
Money was never the issue. He had a diploma from a prestigious university, if he ever wanted he could get a well paying job.
And enjoyment? No. There was no thrill, no rush. Only the act itself.
Done, and gone.
After pondering for some while, he decided to drop the issue. He had thought about this a lot, however he had never reached a clear answer.
There was another job tonight.
The streets stretched out in front of him, long and empty. Streetlamps burned with a dull yellow, casting halos over cracked asphalt. A few drunks staggered along the sidewalks. Once in a while, the whine of a PTV drifted past and vanished into the quiet.
No matter how he looked at it, this city was depressing.
There was no color to it.
The only color he saw was black and white.
After a slow walk, the buildings began to shrink. The poor side of the city. Walls made from cheap concrete, balconies that sagged under their own weight. They wouldn't last through a real storm, let alone an earthquake.
He had already hired someone to keep an eye on the target. He had done this because he needed to complete two missions today. It was not practical but he had decided to do so anyways.
Information was relayed to his archaic phone. The target was in her home.
He had been hired by a young schoolgirl actually. The young girl had asked him to eliminate the woman who kept making her life miserable.
The man had never really wanted to hear the young girl vent, but he had listened to her anyways.
And when she finally named the woman, he knew this would be one of the rare jobs he wouldn't regret.
From his pocket, he pulled a plain black medical mask and hooked the straps over his ears.
There was no real need for it — no cameras, no witnesses. But he preferred to keep his face hidden.
Or maybe he was just paranoid.
Not that paranoia was ever a bad thing in his line of work.
He stood in the shadows, eyes fixed on the five-story building ahead. The concrete looked tired, chipped at the edges, like it had been forgotten by time. He watched it in silence for several minutes, waiting for movement — a late-night smoker, a wandering neighbor, anyone who might still be awake.
Nothing. All the windows were dark.
With a quiet exhale, he stepped forward.
The door gave a long, low creak as he pushed it open, making him curse inwardly. Inside was a narrow corridor, the stale air thick with dust and the faint odor of damp plaster. Stairs climbed into darkness, flanked by two doors on the ground floor.
The target was in the left unit.
He approached, gloved fingers brushing the handle — locked, of course.
'What was I thinking anyways.. What kind of maniac leaves their door open?'
He had to resort to pick locking.
From his pocket came the slim tools of his trade. The picks slid into the lock, scratching softly against metal. He worked slowly, each faint click sounding far too loud in the silence. Patience over speed. Always.
At last, the lock gave.
He turned the handle, easing the door open.
'Don't creak…'
It didn't.
The apartment was a single cramped room: a bed in one corner, a tiny kitchen merging with the living space. One door to the balcony, another likely to the bathroom. The faint smell of detergent lingered in the air.
The girl lay on the bed, curled in sleep.
He didn't wait. The gun came up, the suppressor swallowing the shot in a muffled hiss. The bullet punched through her temple; blood spread across the sheets in a slow, dark bloom.
He scanned the room one last time. No prints, no fibers, nothing left behind.
Then — light.
A sudden glow flared from beneath the blankets, stark against the dim room.
A phone.
With silent steps he walked over to the bed and carefully pulled up the blanket, after retrieving the phone he fixed the blankets.
He used the girl's finger to open the lock on the phone. Then he immediately started going through it.
He felt something damp stride over his back as he opened the messages. He shivered.
His thumb froze. Staring back at him from the top of the chat was his own figure, caught in grainy night light, standing outside this very building.
The woman had took his picture when he was waiting outside, and had sent it to the police. The location was sent too.
Without waiting he put the phone back into its previous place and walked out to the balcony.
He vaulted the balcony rail and dropped, boots slamming against the pavement. No pause — he was already moving, cutting through the narrow alleys like a shadow fleeing its light.
The streets were still dead — no headlights, no footsteps, no witnesses. His breathing was steady, measured. He'd run more dangerous escapes before.
A left turn. Then a right.
That's when he saw it.
The entrance of a tunnel, wide and black, yawning between two stretches of graffiti-scrawled wall. No lights inside, no traffic, not even the faint hum of ventilation. A relic from some forgotten city plan — one of those pedestrian underpasses that people avoided after dark.
Perfect.
He slowed his pace just enough to listen. Nothing. The tunnel swallowed all sound. His boots clicked softly against the cracked pavement as he stepped inside, shadows closing over him like a curtain.
The air was cool, thick with the smell of damp stone and rusted metal. A thin trickle of water ran along the gutter, catching glints of the distant streetlights outside. His footsteps echoed faintly.
'Good choice.'
He told himself. No cameras. No open angles. Only two ways in.
He was halfway through when a sound stirred the silence.
A faint wail, far away. The kind that made your chest tighten before your brain even named it.
Sirens.
He slowed, letting his steps fall silent. Maybe they weren't for him. Maybe they'd pass.
Then another siren joined it — this one sharper, closer.
From the opposite direction.
He stopped completely.
The sound swelled in both ears now, closing the distance. The low rumble of engines followed, bouncing down the tunnel until it was impossible to tell how close they were. Red and blue light began to flicker against the damp concrete, smearing across the walls in restless, shifting patches.
His escape route was gone.
His heart hammered in his chest — loud, erratic, like a warning drum after years of silence.
Why would he feel this way? As far as he remembered he had never valued his life. He had always been reckless and made the worst choices possible.
Who in their right mind would decide to kill people for money while having high paying job choices?
His fingers clenched tightly around the gun's grip, knuckles whitening.
The two police cars flanked him, engines idling low. Officers stepped out, weapons drawn, leaning against their vehicles for cover.
"Drop your weapons and surrender immediately!" A policewoman shouted.
However the killer did not comply.
He wanted to escape.
Why?
The question clawed at his mind.
Why now that he wanted to live after leading such a life?
What was the reason that he wanted to keep living?
His eyes widened slightly as he pondered. He had thought about reasons and such concepts a lot to the point his mind was going to blow.
But he had never found one.
Because there was no need for one.
One did not need a grand reason to continue to live, to want to live.
A sudden clarity burst through the chaos of his mind.
'I live because I want to. And that is the only reason I need.'
'I live this way.. not because I enjoy it, not because it gives me resources. But simply because I chose it.'
'I do not need a reason to continue living.'
He raised his gun without hesitation.
Four deafening shots rang out, ricocheting through the tunnel's hollow walls.
Heat seared through his body as four bullets tore into vital places.
A ragged gasp escaped him.
Then silence — broken only by the dull thud of his body hitting the cold asphalt.
His vision blurred. His world black and white as always.
But through the haze, the policewoman appeared — vivid and sharp against the grayscale.
Blonde hair catching the faint light, pale skin almost glowing, blue uniform crisp and real.
'How beautiful.'
A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
"W-what's your name?" he whispered, voice cracking.
Those were the last words he ever spoke.
On that day, the killer grew his own wings.
And just like that, the curtains closed.
The audience rose as one, erupting into applause and cheers, drowning the night in praise.