Chapter 22:
The room is quiet in the way only expensive rooms are.
Soundproofed walls. Matte-black glass. A single table that reflects nothing unless you lean close enough to see yourself distorted in it.
The man at the head of the table doesn't sit.
He never does.
Someone clears their throat. "We've contact the mercenary team. But they're badly injured."
The man doesn't turn.
"That was expected," he says calmly.
A screen lights up behind him. Blurred footage. A parking structure. Shadows moving too fast for the camera to catch cleanly.
"The reports claim—" a voice begins.
"—extraordinary speed," the man finishes for them. "Inhuman movement. Phantom displacement."
He finally turns, hands clasped behind his back.
"Fear," he says. "Adrenaline. Survivorship bias."
No one argues. They've learned better.
A technician hesitates. "Sir… frame-by-frame reconstruction shows displacement exceeding—"
"—consumer-grade cameras," the man cuts in smoothly. "Low refresh rate. Motion blur. Parallax error."
He gestures once. The footage pauses.
A freeze-frame catches Evan mid-step. Clear. Ordinary. Almost boring.
"No energy signatures," the man continues. "No thermal anomalies. No environmental collapse. Concrete intact. Vehicles undamaged."
He looks around the table.
"If he were S-rank, you'd see scars on the city."
Silence.
"Profile," he says.
A woman speaks, measured. "Male. Early twenties. Exceptional reaction time. Extreme situational awareness. Protective attachment to the target."
She pauses.
"Strength readings place him above baseline human. Possibly enhanced. But within known parameters."
The man nods.
"Conclusion?"
"High B," someone says. "Possibly A, if trained privately."
"Dangerous," the man agrees. "But not exceptional."
He turns back to the screen.
EVAN CARTER
STATUS: UNREGISTERED
BACKGROUND: INCOMPLETE
ACCESS LEVEL: INVALID
No flags. No myth tags. No warnings.
"Unregistered men don't scare me," the man says lightly. "They bore me."
He taps the table.
"We test."
A few heads lift.
"Deploy A-17."
A ripple moves through the room. That's excessive for a B.
"Clean," the man adds. "Direct. No noise. No collateral."
Another screen opens.
ASSASSIN ID: A-17
RANK: A
SPECIALTY: CLOSE-QUARTERS ELIMINATION
CONFIRMED KILLS: 312
FAILED MISSIONS: 0
A man with relaxed shoulders. Empty eyes. Someone who never rushes.
"If Carter survives," the man says, almost amused, "then we reassess."
He smiles faintly.
"And if he doesn't… problem solved."
The lights dim.
Orders transmit.
Somewhere in the city, A-17 opens his eyes
Evans pov
The city doesn't feel different.
That's the problem.
Mia sleeps beside me, curled toward my chest like she decided sometime in the night that distance wasn't an option anymore. Her breathing is slow now. Even. Real sleep. I don't move, because I know the moment I do, she'll wake.
I stare at the ceiling.
Listen.
The building hums. Pipes tick. Somewhere far below, a door opens. Footsteps echo. Normal sounds. Ordinary life.
And beneath all of it—
a pressure.
Like the air itself is holding its breath.
I've felt this before.
Not danger.
Intent.
I slide out of bed without shifting the mattress. Bare feet touch the floor, silent. I pull on my jacket, check the hallway through the peephole.
Empty.
Still, the feeling doesn't go away.
I step back inside, kneel, and gently brush my knuckles against Mia's arm.
"Mia," I whisper.
She stirs. "Mmm?"
"Get dressed," I say softly. "We're leaving."
Her eyes open instantly. Too fast for someone half asleep.
"Now?"
"Yes."
She sits up, heart already racing. "Is it happening again?"
I don't answer.
That's enough.
She grabs her hoodie, jeans, shoes—hands shaking but focused. She doesn't ask questions. She trusts me. That trust settles heavy in my chest.
I walk to the window.
Third floor. Street below. Early morning gray. Cars moving. People going to work.
Normal.
Then I see him.
He's across the street, leaning against a light pole like he's been there all night. No phone. No distraction. Hands loose at his sides. Head slightly down.
Waiting.
He doesn't look up.
He doesn't need to.
Every instinct I have locks onto him like a blade snapping into place.
Not muscle. Not noise. Not desperation.
Stillness.
Predatory.
Mia steps beside me. "Evan…?"
"Don't look," I say gently.
Too late.
Her breath catches. "Who is that?"
"The one they sent."
She turns to me, fear flashing sharp. "Is he—"
"Yes."
I reach for her coat. "You're going out the back. I'll meet you at the car."
Her fingers close around my sleeve. "No. I'm not leaving you."
I meet her eyes.
"You are," I say quietly. "Because he's not here for you."
That scares her more.
"For me?" she whispers.
I nod once.
She swallows. "Will you be okay?"
I almost smile.
"Yes."
She hesitates—then nods. Stronger than she knows. She moves toward the door, pauses.
"Evan," she says softly.
I glance back.
"Come back."
I don't promise.
I just say, "Go."
She grabs my wrist once more.
Not tight.
Just enough to say don't disappear.
The door closes behind her.
The pressure sharpens.
I step into the hallway.
By the time I reach the stairwell, I can already feel him adjusting. Positioning. He's tracking through reflection, sound, pattern.
Good.
I push the door open and step outside.
Cold air. Morning traffic. A city pretending it doesn't notice predators moving through it.
He's standing in the middle of the sidewalk now.
Waiting.
Up close, he's… unremarkable.
Average height. Lean. Dark jacket. No visible weapons. Eyes calm. Empty. A man who's never rushed because he's never needed to.
He studies me the way a professional studies a task.
"Evan Carter," he says.
His voice is quiet. Flat.
"Wrong name," I reply.
A pause.
"Unregistered," he continues. "Incomplete background. That bothers people."
"Only the curious ones," I say.
He nods. "You interfered."
"So did you."
He tilts his head. "This doesn't need to be messy."
I look at the street. At the passing cars. At the woman across the road walking her dog.
"Then you should leave."
A faint smile touches his mouth.
"I don't leave missions unfinished."
"Neither do I."
That's when he moves.
No warning.
No posture change.
Just—gone.
To anyone watching, it would look like we blurred toward each other at the same time.
To me, it's slow.
He's fast. Faster than the mercenaries. Cleaner. His strike is aimed for my throat, fingers shaped to crush, not cut.
Efficient.
I step inside the arc and turn my shoulder.
His hand brushes past skin.
Miss.
I pivot, elbow snapping toward his ribs.
He twists away, impossibly smooth, and counters with a knee aimed at my spine.
I'm already gone.
We pass each other, turn, collide again.
The sound hits late.
Concrete cracks beneath our feet.
He lands first this time—heel slamming down, palm striking toward my chest with enough force to shatter bone.
I let it hit.
Absorb.
Redirect.
The shockwave ripples through my jacket but dies before it reaches my core.
His eyes flicker.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Interesting.
I grab his wrist and twist.
He lets it go slack instantly, spinning with the motion, using my own grip to pull himself closer.
Smart.
His head snaps forward—
I shift half an inch.
His forehead grazes my cheek instead of my nose.
I respond with a short, brutal strike to his collarbone.
He blocks.
Barely.
The impact still sends him skidding back three steps.
Now he's smiling.
"Not B-rank," he says calmly.
"No," I agree.
He adjusts his stance. Lower now. Tighter. Kill mode.
People start to notice.
A car screeches to a halt. Someone shouts. Phones come out.
I don't like that.
I move.
To them, it looks like I disappear and reappear ten feet to the left.
I hook his ankle mid-step and yank.
He flips, lands on his hands, springs up before gravity finishes its job.
Good balance.
I strike again.... a bit faster.
He blocks once.
Twice.
The third hit lands.
My knuckles crash into his jaw.
Bone cracks.
He flies back, slams into a parked car hard enough to severely dent metal.
The alarm screams.
He drops to one knee.
Blood drips from his mouth.
He wipes it away with his thumb, examines it like it's interesting data.
"You're holding back," he says.
He's right.
I don't bother correcting him
He pushes up slowly.
"That's a mistake," he adds.
He vanishes.
Not speed.
Timing.
He appears behind me, blade flashing into existence like it was always there. A thin, black-edged knife aimed for my kidney.
I moved faster
The blade cut through air
missing me.
I caught his arm, slam my knee into his elbow.
It bends the wrong way.
He doesn't scream.
Just grunts in pain
He just drops the knife and switches hands mid-motion, driving his palm into my neck.
I let my head snap back—
then stop it.
Dead.
His eyes widen again.
I grab him by the throat and lift him off the ground.
The street goes silent.
People stare.
Cars stop.
He kicks once.
Twice.
I slam him down.
Concrete explodes, spiderweb cracks ripping outward.
He rolls, springs up again, slower now.
"You're not human," he says, breathing heavily for the first time.
I step forward.
"You came after her."
He steadies himself, eyes burning now—not fear.
Excitement.
"They won't stop," he says. "You know that."
I nod. "I know."
He straightens.
"So will you kill me?"
I tilt my head.
"No."
I move.
My fist crashes into his ribs.
Once.
Twice.
Third strike caves something in.
He staggers, coughs blood.
I grab his collar and hurl him through the windshield of the parked car.
Glass rains.
Metal screams.
He lies still for half a second.
Then—
he laughs.
Low. Broken. Admiring.
"Good," he says, pushing himself up, blood running down his face. "Now I see it."
See what?
He raises his head.
Behind me—
something shifts.
I feel it before I hear it.
A second presence.
No.
More.
I turn—
and that's when the ground explodes.
A shockwave tears through the street. Windows shatter. People scream.
I brace, spinning—
—and see shapes moving through the smoke.
Not one.
Not two.
Three.
All fast.
All wrong.
A-rank wasn't the test
It was confirmation.
Whoever sent them finally realized I wasn't supposed to exist.
The smoke parts.
Ten figures step forward.
Calm.
Coordinated.
Smiling like this is already decided.
I roll my shoulders once.
Guess they're done pretending.....