I used to kill for money. Now I kill those who try to pay me.

It’s cleaner that way. No loose ends. No contracts. Just a message: don’t come for me.

Tonight, I left another body in a warehouse off Route 9—some suit with a briefcase full of cash and a death wish. I didn’t even have to draw my gun. He begged. I listened. Then I put a round in his skull.

On the way out, three cars boxed me in. Espinoza’s team. Good tactics. Bad timing.

I saw the muzzle flash before the first shot cracked. Dropped, rolled, came up firing. Two down. The third—Steve—pulled back, smart enough to live.

Then I saw Hopper in the shadows. My trainer. My father in every way that mattered. He didn’t raise his weapon. Just watched. Assessed.

I walked past him without a word.

Two days later, I asked Martha McKay out for coffee. She studies fossils. Talks about extinction like it’s poetry. She looked at me like I was a puzzle she wanted to solve.

We didn’t touch that night. Just talked. Laughed. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a ghost.

Now, sitting across from her at dinner, I see Espinoza at the bar. Hand inside his jacket. Eyes locked on mine.

I don’t want to do this here.

But he pulls the gun.

I move before he can aim.

One shot. Center mass.

He drops.

Martha stares at me, breathless. The restaurant erupts in screams.

I take her hand. "We need to go."

Later, in her kitchen, I grab a knife. Toss it high. Catch it by the handle as it falls.

"It’s not reflex," I say. "I see it coming."

She shakes her head. "That’s impossible."

I throw it at her.

She catches it. Blade between her fingers. No cut.

Her eyes widen. "Oh god. I felt it."

That’s when she starts to panic.

And I realize—she’s not afraid of the knife.

She’s afraid of me.