Russell knew instantly that he was an assassin and not, say, a SWAT officer.
Simple. In this shallow world, looks were everything.
The four men standing around him looked like they had walked straight out of a "Most Wanted" poster. Scars, mean glares, resting murder-faces. If this were a TV show, these guys were the cannon fodder that wouldn't survive the opening credits.
This was bad news. If his "teammates" were destined to die in two minutes, Russell was in trouble.
"System, where am I? Who am I? What's the mission?"
Russell tried to ping the voice inside his head, but the System had gone into silent mode.
He was used to this. In the first two worlds, he had to figure things out on his own. The only difference was that Subway Surfers didn't involve sniper rifles.
Russell studied the black-and-white photo pinned to the floor, then looked at the building across the street. The target was a middle-aged man with a prominent forehead and slicked-back hair.
"The Slick-back" was currently hiding behind a filing cabinet in an office one floor down. He was cautious.
Russell shifted his aim slightly. Through the scope, he saw an Indian woman in the adjacent office. The red bindi on her forehead was bright, perfectly round, and incredibly distracting.
Russell felt an inexplicable urge to center his crosshairs right on that dot.
It was a primal instinct. Like when a man walks up to a urinal and sees a small stain on the white porcelain. You don't think about it. You just aim. You focus your stream with laser precision to blast it away.
According to statistics, 250% of men do this. Even the ones with a "split stream" try to use it like a shotgun.
Bang!
A gunshot rang out. The woman in the scope dropped. The bullet had entered through the red dot and exited the back, painting the wall red.
"Cool!" "Nice shot!" "Bullseye, Boss! You nailed it."
Russell gasped, pulling his eye away from the scope. His stomach churned. He realized with horror that he hadn't pulled the trigger. The shot came from the leader of the squad—a man with a thick beard wearing a heavy tactical helmet. The cruelty of the dialogue chilled him. They hadn't killed the woman because she was a threat. They killed her just to spook the target.
"Target is moving! Light him up!"
The plan worked. Panic flushed The Slick-back out of hiding, sending him sprinting down the hallway.
The squad opened up instantly. Four rifles roared, unleashing a storm of lead that chewed up the walls, shattered glass, and filled the corridor with debris.
But for all the noise and fury, they didn't land a single scratch.
Russell wasn't surprised. The myth of the "perfect sniper" was just that—a myth. His teammates weren't elite marksmen; they were thugs with expensive guns. Shooting a moving target at this distance? They'd have better luck throwing rocks.
"Shit! We lost him!" "That guy runs fast. Like a ghost." "Hey, Russell! Why didn't you shoot?" "The Beard" yelled, turning his helmeted head toward Russell.
Russell stayed silent. He had no reason to shoot. He didn't even know who the target was.
"Russell, I'm talking to you! Why didn't you take the shot?" The Beard's voice grew angry.
Russell didn't move. He kept his eye glued to the scope. Suddenly, he froze.
"Wait. He's coming back!!"
"What?!!!"
"The target. He's sprinting back down the hallway... fast. Really fast." Russell looked up from the scope, bewildered.
The Slick-back had escaped. Why was he running toward the shooters? Was he suicidal?
The Beard and the other two assassins turned around, confused. Then, they saw something they would never forget.
The Slick-back sprinted full tilt through the office, smashed through the tempered glass window, and launched himself into the void between the two skyscrapers.
Russell's jaw dropped. The gap between the buildings was at least 30 meters. Unless the guy had wings or a jetpack, this was suicide.
But a split second later, Isaac Newton, Galileo, and Einstein all had their coffin lids kicked open.
Newton looked at the scene, sighed, and lay back down. He pulled his coffin lid shut. Not my department, he decided. I'm done with this nonsense.
While suspended in mid-air, defying all laws of gravity, The Slick-back screamed like a banshee. Before his momentum died, he drew two weapons: a modern Beretta 92F and... an ancient, long-barreled Flintlock Pistol.
The Beretta barked twice. Two assassins dropped dead instantly.
Then came the Flintlock.
The shot from the Flintlock was even more absurd.
The Beard had taken cover behind a concrete pillar—a blind spot, a safe haven. Yet, he dropped dead, killed from an impossible side angle.
Russell was standing right next to him. And looking at the mess on the floor, he could swear on The Beard's scattered brains: That bullet curved.
The Slick-back crashed through the window onto the floor below them, his screaming finally stopping.
Three shots. Three kills. All while flying through the air.
On the roof, only Russell and one other assassin—let's call him "Goggles"—were left standing. They stood there, stunned into silence.
"Curving bullets..." Russell muttered, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. "I know this world."
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