2026-01-18 15:25:39Darin had never considered himself a good man. He was a paid executioner from the Black District, specializing in fast, clean kills for mid-level cartels, not a sadistic butcher who reveled in screams, and not a random psychopath either. He worked neatly. One target, one blade, done.
That was why tonight was supposed to be easy.
A courier who leaked information. A witness, just a kid, in the wrong place at an even worse time. But everything collapsed the moment the first siren wailed.
“Police!” someone shouted from the end of the alley.
Darin ran.
Rain slicked the pavement, city lights reflecting in puddles like shattered glass. He vaulted a low fence, cut through a narrow passage, his breathing steady even as adrenaline spiked. He had been chased often enough to know how to buy himself a few more minutes.
What slowed him down was the kid.
A small boy suddenly stepped out from behind a metal door, thin body wrapped in clothes too big for him. The child stared at Darin with wide eyes. He did not scream. He did not run. He just stood there, as if he did not yet understand what he was seeing.
A fraction of a second of hesitation.
The first shot missed. The second struck Darin’s chest, slightly left of center, not the heart, but enough to drive the air from his lungs in a single, brutal exhale. His body jerked, yet his legs kept moving, instinct refusing to let him fall.
He ran into a dead end.
No exit.
Darin turned. Knife raised.
And that night, he broke his one personal rule.
He killed someone who was not his target.
When the police entered minutes later, Darin was still standing, his chest rising and falling unevenly. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered against the wet asphalt.
“Drop the weapon!”
He turned his head.
Too late.
The bullet punched into his chest, deeper than the first.
In that instant, something that should have ended instead connected.
Darin came to in a half-kneeling position, his left chest feeling as if it were pinned beneath something heavy. Not sharp pain, but a dull pressure that shortened his breath, made it incomplete. He inhaled in small measures, checking whether his lungs still worked.
He looked down.
The gunshot wound was still there.
His black jacket was torn at the chest, fabric gaping, soaked, sticky. Blood flowed slowly, not spurting, as if something were holding it back from fully leaving his body.
Strange.
He knew this sensation. He knew what dying felt like.
He should not have been feeling anything at all.
Yet the rain still fell, the metallic smell still burned his nose, and the alley was still there.
“That’s impossible…” he murmured.
Darin’s gaze shifted slowly, as if afraid of what he might find.
A few steps ahead, the small body was still lying where it had fallen.
The boy was not dead.
His chest rose and fell with effort. His breathing was rough, like a child trying to draw in air too deeply with lungs not ready for it. Blood streamed from the wound in his abdomen, mixing with rain, tracing the cracks in the asphalt.
Darin clenched his jaw.
Sirens.
Still distant, but more than one. The pattern was clear. He knew the distance and the timing. He had calculated the same thing before, from the opposite side.
Ten minutes.
Eleven if they moved carefully.
He did not have time.
“What is actually happening…” he whispered.
[This was not supposed to happen.]
The voice came from nowhere. It simply appeared in his head, calm, like a report prepared long in advance.
Darin’s body tensed on reflex.
“Get out,” he said quietly.
[If I could get out, you would not be breathing anymore as of several seconds ago.]
Darin took a short, bitter breath. “So what are you. The final hallucination of a dying man?”
[Consider me a manager.]
Blue text appeared in the air, uneven, as if its purpose was to be read, not displayed.
[Subject Assessment: Darin]
The text paused, then continued.
[Profession: Cartel Executioner]
[Specialization: Close-range elimination]
[Work pattern: Efficient. Minimal emotion. Contract-compliant.]
[Special note: Does not kill children. Never has. Until tonight.]
Darin’s fingers tightened.
His eyes flicked to the boy, then quickly away.
“If you already know all that,” he said softly, “why am I still alive?”
[Because there was a pause.]
The text changed.
[Hesitation recorded. This is rare.]
New text appeared.
[First Mission]
Darin narrowed his eyes.
[Save your last victim.]
[Countdown initiated.]
[10:00]
[Additional note: Police will arrive before time expires.]
[If you wish to persist, move now.]
“What if I refuse?”
[Your existence continues without this body, the police still arrive, and this time there will be no impact suppression.]
Darin exhaled slowly. “That doesn’t sound like a choice.”
[I am offering an opportunity. Choice comes afterward.]
The countdown ticked down.
[04:42]
Darin knelt fully, cold asphalt biting into his knees. His hand reached toward the boy, then froze midair.
He stiffened.
From this distance, the child’s face was clear. Too young. Eyes half open, glassy, searching for something he did not understand.
Darin turned his face away.
He pressed down on the wound without looking, his movements automatic, like holding a body still before the end.
The difference was, this time he was trying to stop something.
“Don’t die,” he said quietly.
He did not know who the words were meant for.
Another panel appeared.
[Limited Options]
The choices hovered in silence.
Darin read quickly. His jaw hardened when his eyes stopped on a single line.
“Life Transfer…”
[Links mission success to your continued survival.]
[High risk. Permanent.]
The sirens were closer now.
Darin did not ask another question.
He chose.
Cold surged through his chest, spreading fast, like liquid ice flooding his veins. His vision trembled. His breath caught, but he held on.
Beneath his hands, the boy’s bleeding slowed.
Stopped.
The countdown vanished.
[First Mission: Successful]
Darin collapsed backward into a sitting position.
He let the rain strike his face, his hair, let the cold seep in without resistance.
The alley fell briefly silent, holding only the sound of rain and two breaths that should not have been sharing the same space.
“Why…” the boy’s voice was hoarse, small, like a child confused and afraid. “Why did you help me…”
Darin closed his eyes.
Because if I look at you right now, I might not be able to stand again.
What came out instead was, “Because I didn’t want to die alone.”
The system did not respond immediately.
The silence stretched longer than necessary.
Finally, the voice returned.
[Initial contract accepted.]
A small panel appeared.
[Second Mission (Deferred)]
[Protect the target from the consequences of your former world.]
[Preparation time: 5 minutes.]
[And one more thing.]
[If you wish to persist… from now on, you must learn to protect, not to eliminate.]
The sirens were clear now. Red and blue lights flickered at the mouth of the alley.
Darin opened his eyes.
He stared at the brightening end of the passage.
Then he looked down, at the boy in his arms.
And for the first time since becoming an executioner, Darin realized he was no longer alone, and that was far more dangerous.
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Part 10 Point of No Return
Darin stood with both hands open, palms facing down, his fingers slightly tensed as if holding back the vibration traveling from his arms into his chest. His breathing was still heavy from the earlier impact, uneven, scraping his throat on the way in and out. Something cold pressed against the back of his head, a cold that could not be mistaken. Metal. Its shape was clear without needing to see it. The muzzle of a gun. He did not need to turn to know the angle or the distance. One pull of a finger.Across from him, Rian struggled weakly. His movements were small, ineffective. The ten-year-old’s body was too light, too easy to restrain. He fought in the only way he knew, twisting, kicking at the air, rolling his shoulders, hoping the grip would loosen, even just a little.It did not.“Stay still,” said the man holding Rian, his tone lazy, almost bored. His hand tightened instead, fingers digging deeper into the boy’s arm.Rian winced, his jaw set against the pain, but he did not cry. H
Part 9 The Price of a Choice
The truck engine did not roar right away.It came to life slowly, heavy, like the first breath of a large beast just waking up. The vibration traveled through the ground, up Darin’s legs, and settled in his chest. The sound alone was enough to make Rian step closer without realizing it.“Brother…” His voice was small. “Where… where are we going?”Darin did not answer.He remained where he was. One foot slightly forward, the other held back. The stance of someone who had not chosen yet, but was no longer neutral.The man in the black jacket glanced toward the cab. “Easy on the gas,” he said briefly.The silhouette inside nodded. The headlights flared on, slicing through the darkness and illuminating the narrow road the truck would take. A road that led straight toward rows of ramshackle houses and old shops that had stood there far too long.Darin lifted his hand slightly.“Turn it off,” he said.Not a shout. Not a threat. Just a flat tone, like a request that had come too late.The ma
Part 8 That Changes Nothing, or Everything
The man stopped three steps short of the edge of the light.A nearly dead streetlamp flickered above his head, making his face surface and sink back into shadow. Black jacket, heavy boots, relaxed posture but ready. Not the type to shout while pointing a gun.The type who waited for his opponent to make a mistake.“Alone?” he asked, his voice low, almost friendly.Darin did not answer.He leaned slightly forward, his body shielding Rian without needing to look back. The stance was an old reflex, not warm or protective, more like a shield ready to crack.The man glanced past Darin, his eyes catching a small movement.“Oh,” he said softly. “You brought a kid.”Rian clutched Darin’s jacket tighter. His nails pressed into skin.“The kid has nothing to do with this,” Darin said. His voice was flat. Not a threat. A statement.The man smiled faintly. “In a place like this, everyone has something to do with it.”He glanced briefly toward the truck behind him. The metal tank sat still, heavy,
Part 7 The Weight of Being Seen
Their pace slowed as they entered a more open stretch.District 7 was not silent. It was holding its breath.Fire burned in the distance, not large, but enough to stain the night sky orange. The smell of smoke mixed with fuel clung to the air, biting at the nose and weighing on the lungs with every breath.Rian walked beside Darin, his steps short and uneven. Every time his foot slipped on the wet asphalt, he reflexively grabbed Darin’s jacket.“Slow down,” Darin said. “Don’t run. Running makes noise.”Rian nodded, but his fingers tightened their grip.“What if…” he whispered, “…we run into bad people again?”“Just say it.”“If I scream… will you get mad?”The question was simple. But Darin stopped.He turned to look at the boy. Rian’s face was dirty, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and rain. Those eyes, the eyes of a child who should have been sleeping or playing, looked at him with open anxiety.“I won’t get mad,” Darin said at last. “I’ll grab you and we’ll run.”Rian nod
Part 6 The Fire That Creeps
The fire in District 7 did not burn like a sudden war that swallowed everything at once. It did not arrive with a great roar or blinding flashes of light. It crept in quietly, slowly, like a disease slipping into the body of the city without a sound, killing it piece by piece.Smoke hung low between the decrepit buildings, clinging to cracked walls and perforated tin roofs. The glow of streetlights was smothered by gray haze, blurred and trembling, like tired eyes forced to stay open. Darin staggered ahead, his steps no longer steady, his shoulders tilting to one side. Rian followed two steps behind, head lowered, coughing into the sleeve of a shirt already blackened with soot.“This smell…” Rian whimpered softly, his voice hoarse. “It’s like burning plastic.”“Warehouses,” Darin answered shortly, his breathing heavy. “They burn the small ones first, panic people, mess up the streets, confuse the cops.”“And then?” Rian asked quickly.“Then they move in.”Rian stopped short, his shoes
Part 5 When the Sirens Refuse to Fade
The sirens did not leave.The sound pierced through the walls, pressed against the ears, and made the air feel tighter than it should have been. Darin stood in the middle of the dark, abandoned factory, his body rigid, his back against a rusted iron pillar, listening as the sirens echoed off cracked concrete and a leaking roof.Rian sat on the floor, hugging his knees tightly, like a child trying to make himself as small as possible. His shoulders were hunched, his oversized T-shirt wrinkled and damp in places. His hands were filthy, palms and fingers smeared with dirt, his nails black with dried blood, as if they had not been cleaned in a long time. He was not crying. The fire in his eyes was gone, his gaze fixed on the floor as though he were staring at something only he could see, as if fear had gone beyond its limit and no longer had a shape.“We can’t stay here,” he said at last.His voice was small, nearly swallowed by the sirens, but there was a raw urgency in it, the tone of a
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