The train roared through the silent city under the cover of night, its heavy wheels grinding relentlessly against the rails, the sound reverberating like a metallic heartbeat. At this hour, it was speeding along a raised track that stretched over the wide, slow-moving river. Above, the night sky hung like a black velvet tapestry, dotted with glittering stars, and the moon hung low, casting a dim glow. Neon lights from the city reflected off the water's surface, mingling with the starlight, creating a colorful, shimmering spectacle that glowed faintly through the windows of the train car.
The man seated by the window gazed out at this display with idle interest, taking in the serene beauty of the night before he turned his attention back to his dinner. His movements were slow and methodical. The silver gleam of his knife and fork caught the dim light as he gracefully cut into his meal. After setting his utensils down with precision, he picked up his napkin, dabbing the corners of his mouth before leaning back into his seat, his posture relaxed and composed.
In one hand, he held a wine glass filled with a golden, amber liquid. He swirled it slowly, watching the liquid catch the light before taking a measured sip, savoring the subtle flavors.
Then, his phone vibrated.
Slipping it from his pocket, he glanced at the screen, then pressed it to his ear. His expression remained neutral, but there was a hint of anticipation in his eyes.
"Where are you?" A deep, gravelly voice asked on the other end of the line. The voice was unmistakable. It belonged to the man he respected most in this world: Black Sun, the founder of the most notorious assassin organization. He was not only the leader of the group but also the only person the man on the train admired and obeyed without question.
"Everything's moving according to plan," the man replied smoothly, his voice filled with quiet confidence. He glanced at his watch. "There are... ten minutes and forty-nine seconds."
"Good," came Black Sun's reply. "But remember, you've only got one shot."
"One shot is all I ever need." The man smiled, a quiet, confident chuckle slipping past his lips. "When have I ever needed a second shot, boss?"
There was a pause on the other end. "Don't get overconfident," Black Sun warned. "That man has already taken down six of our best. He's no ordinary target. He's worth all the effort."
"Relax, boss. You know me. No matter who he is, I've never needed more than one shot. In ten minutes...boom. Done. You won't even need the backup plan."
The man ended the call before finishing his glass of wine. He set it back on the table, stood, and picked up a long bag resting against the seat. It looked like a standard golf bag, but inside was no set of clubs.
The man who now stood in the dimly lit train car was known as the Scarlet Reaper. The name alone was enough to send shivers down the spines of those who heard it. His reputation was legendary, both in the underworld and in high society. It wasn't his physical strength or hand-to-hand combat skills that made him feared—it was his deadly accuracy as a sniper. A single shot from him, no matter how impossible the conditions, meant the end of his target.
The Scarlet Reaper was considered one of the top three snipers in the world. Even within the shadowy circles of the assassin world, where killers were as numerous as stars in the sky, his name held unparalleled weight. His loyalty to Black Sun, his precision, and his ability to make seemingly impossible shots had earned him the title of Black Sun's greatest weapon. He wasn't just another hitman; he was a force of nature.
As the main enforcer of Black Sun's will, his very involvement signified that this mission was of utmost importance.
The Public Security Department of Grace City had anticipated the possibility of a sniper, especially after receiving death threats from Black Sun. The FBI had fortified the area surrounding the department headquarters, tightening security to unprecedented levels. Guards with military-grade weapons patrolled potential sniper locations. Experts had carefully mapped out every possible vantage point from which an assassin might take the shot. They had even strengthened the windows of the building and set up additional barriers.
It should have been impossible for a sniper to get close enough for a clean shot.
At least, that's what the FBI believed.
What they hadn't accounted for was the train speeding toward them, the very one the Scarlet Reaper was on.
The Grace City ring train was an ancient rail line, nearly forgotten by most, but it had become a local landmark over the years. Long ago, it had been built by a wealthy industrialist as a symbol of hope for the city during its darkest economic period. The train line was meant to connect the people of the city, showing them that there was a path forward, even in hard times. Even though its importance had waned, the train still ran, passing directly in front of the Public Security Department building on its route.
For a brief moment, the train came within 800 meters of the building—just close enough for a sniper to take a shot if they were daring enough.
The Scarlet Reaper climbed onto the roof of the train with ease. He moved fluidly, as if he belonged there. His hands quickly and expertly assembled his weapon—a custom-made sniper rifle, its sleek design a perfect blend of deadly precision and technological superiority. He was more than ready.
To any other assassin, the conditions were impossible: taking a shot from a moving train, with only a split second to aim, at a heavily guarded target 800 meters away.
But the Scarlet Reaper lived for the impossible.
He crouched low, the wind whipping at his coat, the rumbling of the train blending into his thoughts. His breathing slowed. He could feel every vibration of the train beneath him, and he accounted for every gust of wind. His mind ran through the calculations like a machine, rehearsing the shot a thousand times over in his head. Each time, the result was the same: a clean, perfect kill.
The final building passed in a blur, and suddenly the FBI headquarters loomed into view through his scope. He could see Director Linton sitting at his desk, sipping his coffee and reviewing paperwork. The director's calm, unaware demeanor made him the perfect target.
Scarlet Reaper's finger tightened on the trigger. His breathing stopped, his heartbeat slowed to a crawl.
But then—gunfire.
A shot rang out, not from Scarlet Reaper, but from an unexpected direction. His eyes widened in disbelief. A bullet, impossibly timed and impossibly precise, cut through the air from the opposite side of the FBI building. It blasted through the reinforced concrete wall, shattering windows as it sliced through the air with deadly precision.
It passed within inches of Linton's face, shattering the glass of his office, before continuing on its deadly trajectory.
The bullet found its mark.
It struck the scope of Scarlet Reaper's rifle, shattering it into fragments. Before he could even process what had happened, the bullet continued its deadly path, piercing through the scope, and straight into his eye.
The impact was catastrophic. His head exploded in a shower of blood and bone, his body sent tumbling from the roof of the speeding train like a ragdoll.
In the FBI headquarters, chaos erupted. Alarms blared, security personnel scrambled, unsure of where the shot had come from.
Across the street, standing calmly with his weapon still smoking, was a man in a crimson combat suit. His helmet gleamed under the city lights, a dark red monocle installed over his right eye. The sci-fi sniper rifle in his hands was still aimed at where Scarlet Reaper had been.
Deadshot.
He stood, still as a statue, his weapon lowered in perfect control. He was the deadliest sniper on Earth, his precision unmatched, his reputation earned from a lifetime of impossible kills. For him, this was just another day.