THE SYNDICATE'S SHADOW AGENT

A YEAR BEFORE

"Please don't kill me." he sobbed. Sweat flowed in streaks down his face. This wasn't one of his lucky nights, where he'd be cuddling his beautiful wife as they felt the soft tinges of the duvet. Tonight is a different one. Aside from being slammed over the wall, he's down on his knees, eyes stung with tears, his hands kneaded together while he begged for his life.

Not only his life but his wife's life too, because a fully loaded rifle is pointed right at her skull. The single bulb overhead cast eerie shadows on the walls, its dim glow illuminating his terrified face.

"P..please don't hurt my wife," he stuttered. "You can kill me instead." He crawled forward, his voice stifled beneath his throat.

The man holding the gun pushed his wife away. She crumpled on the floor, a loud groan evading her spherical lips.

"Really?" he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "You think I'm here for your wife?" His deep, authoritative, and baritone voice sent knots of fear to his host's heart and they cringed. That'll be the first word he'd utter since he broke into their home - ten minutes ago.

"No!" the assassin added. His victims quaked again in terror. "I'm not here for your wife."

He turned the barrel of his rifle towards the man, ready to pull the trigger.

The welled-up tears in his eyes trickled down his cheeks ceaselessly. The mere imagination that he won't live to witness his daughter's sixth birthday shredded his heart into pieces.

His wife crawled on her knees, the fringes of her nightgown brushing the floor. She lugged forward as if her incessant pleas would save her husband's life. Just maybe.

"Please, don't hur-"

"Shut up bitch!" the killer thundered and she flinched in outright fear, jolting back to her initial position, her hands obscuring the muffles threatening to fall off her lips.

"I beg you. "I'll give you anything! Just name your price!"

"Shut the fuck up!" the assassin impeded, his grip sturdy on the riffle. "Everything is not about your money," he thundered.

The assassin's voice was like a slap, making the man cringe. He tried to meet his gaze, but the harder he looked, the more elusive his face became.

"That's a facade you bunch of potbellied assholes believe. You all think money can buy everything, including the innocent lives you've wasted," the assassin yelled.

His last sentence sounded like a statement other than the rhetorical question it's meant to sound like.

"You must be a fool to think I'd fall for that too," he added.

At the end of that statement, it became evident to the victims that this wasn't a usual robbery attack or assassination. A robber would loosen his finger on the trigger at the mention of 'money' and an assassin would pull the trigger in two bites of cheerios, without calling their target a 'potbellied asshole'

For the next thirty seconds, silence raided the room, and only the tensed and chaotic breaths of the victims pierced into the night's serenity.

"You're one of the top leaders who take delight in hurting and forcefully taking from the poor. You don't give a fuck if these people are rendered homeless, while you buy multiple houses and fancy cars. Some of these people even lose their lives just because you and your cohorts want to be powerful and wealthy."

The assassin's words hit like a punch to the gut. The politician's face went slack, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and guilt. Eyes, red and teary.

"You and your cohorts in the so-called political world don't deserve to live. I. Won't. Spare. Any. Of. You!"

The assassin cocked his rifle and pointed its barrel at him, finger on the trigger. Maybe he had been lenient and merciful for too long, but this attempt seemed serious as his finger itched - ready to blow off a brain. Ready to kill a famous politician in front of his wife. Ready to kill a potbellied asshole.

"Please don't kill my daddy," a feeble voice echoed.

The assassin stood still. He gritted his teeth at the sudden interruption. He traced the terrified tone to the lips of a little girl standing by the stairs, hands on the handrail.

His finger hesitated on the trigger, his gaze flicking to the little girl's tear-stained face. While her blonde and disheveled hair spattered over her pale face.

The assassin snagged his gun out of sight and proceeded towards her. His imposing figure loomed over the little girl, his black mask and rifle - a stark contrast to her pale face and trembling lips.

For a moment, his resolve wavered, his mind flashing back to his childhood. The little girl's tears sparked something in him, a glimmer of humanity he thought he'd long extinguished. He knelt to her level, his demeanor softening to a gentle gaze.

"Hey, little angel. I'm not gonna hurt your daddy,"

The assassin's voice softened as he spoke to the little girl, his gloved hand gently brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"You promise?" Her innocent voice echoed.

He bit his lip. He turned back to meet the stares of a frightened couple blaring at him. For mercy. He turned to face the little girl again. "Yes, darling. I promise."

"Thank you!"

Her words broke his heart for a moment and a cloud of tears assembled in his eyes. He rose on his feet, a sigh evading his lips.

He slowly walked to the exit of the room. He turned back and he caught sight of the little girl's tiny hand, held up in a goodbye gesture. The fear she had on her face moments ago had faded away and all that was left was a smile that unveiled her evinced and alluring set of canines. He waved her too, he swept her parents in a single gaze before he slammed the door behind him.