The Confessors Blade

The rain slicked streets of New Helix gleamed under neon signs that flickered like dying stars. Matteo Cross crouched atop the glass-and-steel spire of the Zentra Tower, the city sprawling beneath him like a bleeding circuit board. Somewhere down there, the target waited—Jared Lorne, corporate executive, rumored human trafficker, and someone who had made enough enemies to fill a graveyard twice over. Matteo didn’t care about justice, only the pay.

The wind bit through his leather coat, carrying the stench of smoke and sewage. He glanced at the tiny vial strapped to his wrist—containing a serum that would make him invisible to the building’s AI surveillance for six minutes. That was all he needed. Timing was everything.

He leapt. The world blurred. Rain stung his face, and the ledge below seemed closer than physics allowed. Landing silently, he rolled across the narrow rooftop, boots splashing through puddles that reflected the city’s neon glow. From above, he looked like a shadow detaching itself from the night.

Inside the top floor of the building, the target’s office was lit in warm amber, a stark contrast to the cold blue of the city beyond. Matteo’s boots made no sound on the polished floor. He could hear Lorne talking on a call, smooth and commanding, words meaningless to Matteo—he wasn’t there to listen. He was there to end a life.

The blade whispered in his hand—slender, curved, forged from an alloy that could slice through reinforced steel. The hilt bore a faint engraving, nearly invisible unless the light hit it just right: a cross. Matteo had seen it a thousand times, felt its subtle weight, and ignored it. Superstition was for the weak.

He approached silently, shadow stretching across the floor like a living thing. Lorne’s conversation ended. He hung up, pressing a button that made the window panoramic. The city’s pulse reflected in his eyes. Matteo’s breath slowed. He felt nothing—no empathy, no hesitation. Only calculation.

The first step was simple: disable the security drones. A swift toss of an EMP grenade sent them sparking and twitching like dying insects. He slid the blade free from its sheath. Lorne’s chair swiveled at the slightest sound—a mistake. Too late. Matteo was already moving.

The strike was clean, surgical. Lorne never screamed. The room smelled of ozone and expensive cologne. Matteo wiped the blade on the man’s coat and left. His heart rate was steady, mind as cold as the rain.

Then he paused. Something shifted. In the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling window, he saw a shadow that shouldn’t be there. It was not his own. Cross-shaped, elongated, reaching across the glass like a silent accusation.

Matteo frowned. A trick of the neon lights, he told himself. Nothing more. He had a contract, not a conscience.

Descending the stairwell, he heard it faintly—a voice, murmuring. A whisper in Latin, old and soft. “Confiteor peccata mea…,” it said. I confess my sins. Matteo’s fingers tightened around the blade. It came from somewhere deep in the building’s core, yet the room had been empty.

He ignored it. Logic ruled. Assassins don’t believe in ghosts.

By the time he reached the street, the rain had intensified, pouring like a waterfall from the sky. Neon lights reflected on puddles, making the city look like it was bleeding light. He vanished into the crowd, just another shadow moving beneath the towering spires.

His wrist communicator vibrated. A single message: “Confession waiting. Don’t be late.”

He sighed. Father Malachi. The priest who absorbed sins no one else wanted to deal with. Matteo walked past the dying market stalls, past homeless children huddled under plastic sheeting. He didn’t think about them. Not tonight. He only thought of the next step.

The confessional booth waited. Inside, the priest sat behind a carved lattice, barely visible under the flickering candlelight. His hands rested on a small relic—the exact shape of the cross engraved into the metal caught the light briefly, just enough for Matteo to notice, just enough for him to feel the faintest prickle of unease.

“Matteo,” Malachi said, voice calm, steady, like a river cutting stone. “Another night. Another sin.”

“Just business,” Matteo replied. His voice was flat, detached.

“Business kills, Matteo,” the priest said, eyes catching the dim light. “But every kill has a shadow.”

Matteo didn’t respond. The words were nothing. Yet, as he kneeled and whispered the details of the contract, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows in the room were listening—watching, waiting.

The confession ended. Malachi’s hands pressed over the small relic, and the whispering light pulsed faintly. Matteo left without looking back. Outside, the city swallowed him again, neon rain streaming over his coat like blood.

He disappeared into the night, just another shadow. But somewhere, in the corners of the city, shadows moved differently. And Matteo Cross—cold, efficient, untouchable—would soon discover that not all sins could be washed away.

As Matteo vanished into the neon-lit streets, a shadow detached itself from a broken streetlamp behind him. Cross-shaped, elongated. A faint whisper echoed: “Your sins are heavier than you think.”