"Where am I?! Why the hell am I in the air?!"
'Maybe I should've hung him a little higher so he could be closer to God,' George thought, pondering whether to pull the rope and hoist the man all the way to the ceiling or leave him where he was.
It didn't matter much to George, but for the man hanging about ten meters above the ground, it probably made a big difference.
"Hey! Down there! Can you help me down?"
"Well… I feel like putting you down, but not exactly in the way you're hoping," George scratched the back of his head.
'Why does he want to get farther from God? That's strange for a priest…'
He couldn't understand why the old man wanted to come back to earth when he was so close to the heavens. Besides, George had gone through the trouble of making him feel at home.
He had tied the priest to a cross and hung it from the ceiling of a church using a rope.
The divine light streaming through the stained glass illuminated the crucified priest like a holy martyr.
'Maybe this will end up in history books—or better yet, a new edition of the Bible.'
As George pondered existential questions, the priest above him screamed in pain.
"Isn't the church supposed to be a place of silence, Father?"
The man quieted down for a moment before answering. His voice was soft, tinged with authority, but mostly filled with exhaustion.
"Why do you mock me and my suffering, my son?"
"I was just asking, Father. I wasn't trying to mock you."
The priest coughed at George's response.
"Ahem… yes, it should be."
"Did you mean to say 'Amen,' Father?"
"Uh… yes. Amen, my son."
"Amen, Father."
A sinister, uncomfortable silence lingered for several seconds.
"So you're not going to let me down from this cross, my son?"
"No, Father. I wouldn't want to steal the police's role."
"Why are you doing this, my son? You'll never get to heaven with this kind of behavior."
The priest's statement made George think. He'd always had a few questions about religion, and with a priest at his disposal, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to ask.
"Did you manage to get forgiveness for all your murders, Father?"
The old man took several seconds before responding.
"How did you find me?"
"It was pretty simple with today's technology, but you still haven't answered my question, Frédérick."
If the man had any lingering doubts, they were gone now.
"I don't think changing your identity changes your life in the eyes of God. So, did you manage to absolve the sins of your past life?"
"No, my son, but perhaps I can pray for yours to be forgiven."
"I'm not sure you can pray with your arms stretched out like that, Father…"
The man coughed again.
"That's not how it works, my son. You must repent through your actions if you want God to forgive you for your sins."
George was intrigued.
"What should I do, Father, to earn God's forgiveness?"
"Let me down, my son, and you will be cleansed of all your sins."
"That's all, Father?"
The man nodded.
'We killed during the Crusades in the name of religion, so God should be happy if I kill an evil priest, right?' George sincerely wondered, pulling a silenced pistol from the briefcase at his feet.
"What are you doing, my son?!"
George took a few seconds to aim before pulling the trigger.
"GOD WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS ATROC—"
BANG
He shot the priest between the eyes, silencing him forever.
"Enjoy your stay in hell, Frédérick, and thanks for absolving my sins."
George replaced the pistol in his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers.
He held about thirty photographs in his hands, each one depicting a different person.
"May you all find peace."
He tossed the stack into the air. The papers fluttered high above him before scattering and landing all over the church.
George absentmindedly looked at the corpse hanging above him. At least he'd had the decency to end it with a single shot to the head instead of letting the man hang for days. After all, it was the least he could do for an old colleague.
'If that's not a sign that I'm a good person, I don't know what is.'
He turned toward the altar a few steps away.
"You didn't punish him, so I took the liberty of doing it for you."
He stood on his tiptoes to grab a golden chalice from the altar.
"I'll take this as payment, God."
He trotted toward the door, pulling a set of keys from one of his pockets.
"Looking forward to doing business with you again!"
George opened the door and left it wide open as he exited.
'It'd be a shame if no one got to see my masterpiece,' he thought, pulling out his phone.
He scrolled through the photos he had taken to claim the bounty, then opened his maps app.
Not being from New York, he needed some help getting to his next destination.
George would have preferred to ask for directions, but there was no one on the streets near the church.
The cold autumn morning wind wasn't helping much either.
George continued his stroll, admiring the streets around him.
He hadn't come to New York for sightseeing, but he had to admit he might stay a few extra days to explore.
For now, he was heading to the funeral of his greatest idol.
The irony was that he had met him at his own grandfather's funeral. John had been sitting in the back row, wearing an impeccable suit and sunglasses in the middle of winter. No one had sat near him—not just because he was in the last row, but because he seemed to exist in another world entirely.
He didn't speak, and he didn't seem to hear the sobbing around him.
The man's gaze was vacant behind his sunglasses.
"Why aren't you comforting your mother?"
George was surprised by the question.
"Because she's sad?" He shrugged slightly and glanced at his mother, who was sitting in the front row, crying her eyes out.
"That doesn't seem right. She wanted him dead too much to have the right to be sad."
The man shifted his gaze from the void to focus on George's mother.
"Appearances can be deceiving, young man. Why aren't you sad?"
"Grandpa wasn't sad about dying, so why should I be? I know Mom wanted him dead—now that he's gone, she should be happy, right?"
The man wasn't sure if it was a question, but he answered anyway.
"Sometimes people say things without really meaning them. Maybe you'll do the same one day, without realizing it."
"I don't think so."
The man raised an eyebrow behind his sunglasses.
"How can you be so sure?"
"I mean everything I say, and I do everything I think."
"You're nothing like your grandfather."
George was intrigued.
"Why do you say that, sir?"
"Because you lie much better than he did."
The man took off his black sunglasses to clean them with a cloth.
"You're a strange young man, George. The people in my world lie, but they usually have a reason for it. They try to manipulate each other, protect their loved ones, or get closer to their victims. It's a double-edged sword that works in many situations but often does more harm than good."
The man finished cleaning his sunglasses, but he didn't put them back on right away.
For the first time, George could see his eyes—blue like the most massive wave of a tsunami. George felt like no one could escape destruction after seeing them.
"Whether to tell the truth or lie… It doesn't seem to make a difference to you."
"Should it?" George asked, curious.
The man put his sunglasses back on.
"It should. Haven't you ever thought about seeing a psychiatrist?"
George seemed lost in thought at the question.
"I had one for several years, but now he's dead… by the way! Do you know how to get rid of a body, sir?"
The man raised his eyebrows behind his glasses. He almost hesitated to respond, seeing George's wide smile and childlike eagerness to learn.
"Why do you want to learn something like that?" he finally asked, sighing in defeat.
George blinked.
"It's because I killed my psychiatrist, and now I don't know what to do with his body."
"What did he do wrong?"
"He did something wrong?" George asked, intrigued.
"Why did you kill him if he didn't do anything wrong?"
"I don't know! He said I was crazy and that he needed to open my skull to fix my brain. Since I'm not crazy, I opened his skull to see why he was. And then—"
"And what did you find?"
"Well, his brain, but he didn't tell me how to analyze it. After that, I tried to wake him up by tapping on his brain to ask him, but I must have given him too much anesthesia because he wasn't moving anymore. So, I left him under my bed while I figure it out."
The man took off his sunglasses again.
"Your mother's never been bothered by the smell?"
"I used deodorant and opened the window, so it's fine, except at night when there's a little stench."
The man pulled a business card from his coat and handed it to George.
"Call this number and ask for a full cleanup at your address."
As George reached for the card, the man didn't let go right away.
"I don't have to say this, but I will anyway."
His piercing gaze seemed to read George's soul.
"Don't become a killer."
He released his grip on the card and stood up.
"I've already killed an old acquaintance of mine—I wouldn't want to have to kill his grandson."
He put his sunglasses back on and left the cemetery without looking back.
George had only one thought as he watched him leave.
'So cool!!! I'd love to surpass him one day, or even manage to kill him with my own hands!'
George had that conversation two years ago to the day, but he would never forget it until his dying breath. It was a promise he would never be able to fulfill, and just thinking about it made him sad. Now, all that was left for him was to kill the person who murdered his idol in order to surpass him.
The only problem was that no one wanted to admit to the crime.
'All I can do now is wait,' he thought, continuing to walk. The forces of the higher-ups had already begun to move, and nothing could escape them—not even the higher-ups themselves. For George, it was just a matter of waiting for the inevitable. Once the murderer was revealed, there would be far too much competition for him to take a piece of the action, but at least he could use the opportunity to clean up a bit in New York.
'I'll have time for that in the coming days,' he thought, following his GPS. 'I wonder just how many killers there are in this city. There must be at least a few around me,' he mused, weaving his way toward the cemetery.
The streets were now crowded despite the cool autumn morning, but George's small stature allowed him to slip through easily. It only took him a few minutes to reach the cemetery entrance. There weren't many people around the gates, just a young man in an ill-fitting suit with veins on his face that seemed too prominent.
'If that's not Alex Reddick raging, then my psychiatrist lied to me about the signs of anger,' George thought as he approached. He recognized him partly because his father was a legend at the club and partly because he was connected to John's death. George found it amusing that Alex was here and hadn't tried to run.
"Hahahahahahahahaha, you really are your father's son, no doubt about it."
"And who are you?"
"Hahahahahahahahaha, who am I? Who cares! I'm telling you! You must have it in your blood or your genes, I don't know. That irresistible urge to kill people!"
George wasn't a psychiatrist, but he could sense it. He didn't even bother giving Alex his name—dead men didn't need to know it.
"Don't you dare insult my father!!"
Alex had his father's fire but lacked his skills or firmness. George had already lost interest in the conversation, but young Reddick wasn't finished.
While George rambled on, his instincts kicked in. He dodged Alex's slap effortlessly, drawing a gun from his pants and keeping it hidden behind his back. George always carried one in his briefcase and another on him for protection. He could already smell the blood and imagine Alex's body at his feet.
But he quickly decided against it. This wasn't the time or place for a killing. No one had arrived yet, but the other guests would soon start pouring in.
"I'll let this slide today because it's the funeral of my greatest idol. Be careful, kid, because everything in this life comes at a cost."
'Well, his life is already over, but maybe he can remember this lesson for the afterlife,' George thought, losing interest in Alex as his attention shifted to a black Mercedes pulling up and the person stepping out.
'Bernard Reddick.'
George could've recognized the old man in a retirement home. He had that rare, intimidating, and unyielding presence for someone his age. He also exuded a deadly aura, visible to trained eyes like George's.
'He hasn't lost his touch,' George thought, noticing the tiny blood splatters on Bernard's shirt.
The man no longer had the sharpness of his younger days, but it seemed he was still killing people. It felt hypocritical for someone who had sworn decades ago never to kill again.
'He didn't have the courage to go through the ritual to leave the world of crime all those years ago. There's no chance he'll leave it before his death,' George thought.
That was one of the reasons why Bernard wasn't George's idol. John had taken that step, while Bernard had not. That difference, to George, was what separated a man from a legend. Then again, maybe John had died because of it.
"Mr. Reddick, I must say you look even older in person than in the photos from my album," George remarked.
He wasn't lying. Bernard must have been in his thirties in the picture in George's album. The man standing before him now was thirty years older and had very few white hairs left.
"Who are you?" Bernard asked with a stern look.
The question shook George internally; there was no world in which Bernard wouldn't recognize him. Still, George remained calm on the surface, continuing the conversation as if nothing had happened. However, his mind was already elsewhere. Bernard had chosen to lie, and George had no interest in engaging with a liar.
'I wonder how senile he's become,' he thought.
George wasn't just known in Washington; his reputation spanned the entire country. Bernard, as the receptionist of the New York branch of Promesse, should have known the faces of its most important guests—especially notorious and dangerous figures like George.
'Maybe the situation with his son has worsened his mental state. I just wonder if he'll die trying to save him,' George mused.
The conversation ended with a handshake, but George couldn't even recall what they had discussed. He left the Reddicks to their family matters and walked toward the cemetery gates.
All Promesse members had been buried there since the organization's founding hundreds of years ago. The cemetery's massive white walls were inscribed with tens of thousands of names, etched by hand. The oldest inscriptions had already begun to fade, worn away by the elements.
The most prestigious members had their names engraved closest to the gates. George didn't have to search the cemetery to find John's name. It had been carved by hand into one of the two immense bronze doors. His name stood out not only because there were few others inscribed directly on the doors, but because George knew exactly where to look.
The names of the high-ranking members were grouped into five sections, each corresponding to their responsibilities within Promesse. For the four former Princes, their names were engraved at the four corners of the door. George only had to find the "box" for the former Princes of War to locate John's name.
An engraver from the organization must have spent hours on it. John's name had a glow and refinement that made it stand out among the others. Only about twenty names shone brighter than his, inscribed on the arch above the door. Each character had been gilded, giving them an almost divine appearance.
'They manage the cemetery, so it's no surprise they give themselves little perks like that,' George thought as he read each name carved into the arch.
He recognized most of them. They were the Directors of the organization, with the first having built Promesse from scratch, and the others expanding it into what it had become today.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
George wasn't talking to himself; another man had approached. He was the fourth guest to arrive, with the two Reddicks still engaged in a quiet conversation.
The man was bald, seemingly in his fifties, and wore a reassuring smile.
'Jo Reagan, director of the New York branch. I wonder what he's hiding behind that façade,' George thought, turning to face his guest.
He had read several dossiers on Jo from different sources, and they all agreed on the same assessment: charismatic, honest, and trustworthy. But George found it all a bit too perfect.
"It certainly is impressive, Mr. Reagan, but unfortunately, you won't be eligible to have your name engraved on these doors."
The man chuckled softly at George's response.
"I'm well aware of that, Mr. Washington, but I'm curious—why insult me at our first meeting?"
"An insult? I only stated the truth. Did you want to ask me something?"
The man waved his hand as if trying to brush away the leaves swirling in the wind.
"Not at all. I just wanted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Washington, nothing more," Jo said, still smiling.
George stepped closer, standing on his tiptoes to whisper in Jo's ear.
"People who approach me always want something, Mr. Reagan, and I don't think your flawless reputation exempts you from that."
George wasn't sure of his assumption, but he didn't care about making another enemy. He'd only be in the city for a few days, and once he returned to Washington, he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.
"I heard you crucified Father Frédérick?"
Jo hadn't lost his smile even as he asked the question, but the temperature around them seemed to drop sharply.
George knew it was only psychological, but he was still impressed.
'This guy could contribute to global warming with just his smile,' he thought, widening his eyes in surprise.
The moment Jo's smile stopped being warm, George felt the biting autumn cold on his arms.
"I didn't break any rules, so I don't see why it would bother you."
"He was one of my men," Jo replied calmly, without raising his voice.
"One of your men?"
George had to cover his mouth to stifle a laugh so as not to disrupt the Reddicks' conversation.
"He hadn't killed in years. Unless you're the president of a club for retired New York killers, I doubt he was one of your men."
Jo twitched slightly at George's flippant response.
"Stop your activities in my city, or you'll face the consequences, Mr. Washington."
"Jo Reagan, threatening me? I wonder what the members would say if they found out."
"You're insane. No one would believe what you think or say," Jo replied dryly.
Before George could respond, they were interrupted by Bernard's raised voice:
"We'll talk about this when we get home!"
After realizing his outburst, Bernard turned to George and Jo, bowing slightly.
"Please excuse my behavior, gentlemen."
George didn't care much, not wanting to interact with the old man, but Jo was different.
George watched Jo slip back into his warm, approachable demeanor in the blink of an eye, opening his arms as he walked toward the Reddicks.
"I know I shouldn't be so enthusiastic on such a sad occasion, but…"
George had already tuned out Jo's words.
'I don't know what to make of him—maybe he's really trying to build an army of retired killer grandpas,' George thought, his curiosity piqued.
One thing was certain: George now had a new pastime for the next few days. He had already stepped into Jo's business, and he doubted Jo would let him leave without a fight.
'At least I won't be bored. I just wonder how many killer grandpas he'll send after me and how they'll try to kill me,' George thought, imagining a variety of possible scenarios.
Each one was thrilling, but George hoped that whoever came after him in the next few days would meet his expectations.
He snapped out of his thoughts when the fifth guest arrived.
The man was impeccably dressed, with an equally impeccable demeanor.
'Who's this?'
George wasn't high enough in the hierarchy to know all the guests, but he could recognize most of them. The only ones who remained unknown to him were the higher-ups. Even within the organization, many of them were so secretive that George struggled to gather any information about them. The only one he knew was the Prince of his own department.
His name had been John, and he had died a few days ago.
'I imagine his wife has taken over in his absence,' George thought as he watched the man approach.
George didn't know him, but the young man didn't have the air of a high-ranking figure with his silly smile and uncertain steps.
Still, George had learned one thing in his two years as a killer: never trust appearances.
"Good day, gentlemen, my condolences. I'll be the undertaker for this ceremony."
The other guests seemed uninterested in the new arrival, but not George. He was curious to know what kind of person this undertaker was. There were a few prerequisites for being hired at this cemetery, and only two types of people could meet them.
They had to either be very close to the Director or completely unaware of the identity of the people they were burying.
That was part of the rules that the Directors had to follow. George knew some of the other rules, but there were many more that he didn't know—secrets known only to the higher-ups.
George was curious about the undertaker's nature, wondering if he was more of a black or white character. To get an answer, he went straight up and asked.
"Hey, Mr. Undertaker, are you all black or all white?"
The man turned around, not immediately seeing who had spoken. Standing at six-foot-two, it took him a few moments to look down and finally spot George.
"Were you talking to me, sir?"
The undertaker already seemed aware that the identities of the deceased held something special. There was a cautious glint in his eyes that didn't escape George's sharp observation.
"Don't worry, Mr. Undertaker, I just felt like chatting and asking you a few questions."
No matter how reckless George could be, he wouldn't dare touch him. Getting involved with a branch director was one thing, but messing with a man tied to the big boss was another.
The undertaker ran a hand through his hair.
"I'm not sure I can tell you much, especially about the deceased's identity."
"You don't even know who you're burying?"
The man seemed embarrassed by the question.
"I usually know very little—not that it bothers me, sir. I understand that the identity of the deceased can be exceptional, but I've never seen the boss act this mysteriously."
"How long have you worked here?"
"A few weeks at most. You know, it's rare to find a place with working conditions this good."
"You only work here for the paycheck?"
The man gave a sheepish smile.
"It's hard to deny. Sir?"
"George. You can call me George. And who am I speaking with?"
"James Smith, but feel free to call me James."
The two of them chatted for nearly five minutes. George was great at talking about everything and nothing, and by now, he had learned the names of most of James' close relatives and part of his family tree.
George would be in New York for a few more days, plenty of time to dig deeper into the undertaker. For now, he couldn't tell whether James' identity was genuine or if he was a master manipulator.
'It doesn't matter, I'll know after I've dug around a bit,' George thought, glancing at the other guests.
Everyone had arrived. George only recognized one—John's wife.
She was beautiful, dangerously so. With her blood-red hair, scarlet dress, and deadly aura, she resembled a rose. Magnificent but thorny. George didn't dare greet her or meet her gaze.
She had become the new Princess of War after a unanimous vote and was now his boss.
'All the more reason to stay away,' he thought as he observed the other guests.
There was a large man, a young guy in his twenties who had arrived with John's wife, a young Japanese woman, and the Director. The latter wasn't participating in the ceremony, but he was the one who opened the cemetery gates. He was an elderly man with gray hair, someone George was meeting for the first time. George was confident of his identity since James had gone to greet him as soon as he arrived. George deduced this from what he had learned about the rules of Promesse.
'At least it's been useful once in my life,' George thought, looking away.
As for the last three guests, George didn't know. There could be other big shots among them, but he wasn't sure.
James stood by the gates alongside the Director, preparing to let the guests in. George was among the first to step through. He nodded toward the Director before following James toward the grave.
They walked at a leisurely pace, George taking the time to appreciate the surroundings. After all, he would be buried here one day too.
The white marble tombstones, the black jade slate path, and the freshly fallen autumn leaves gave the place a sacred atmosphere.
"Working in a place like this must make you want to take up this job, James. I've buried a few bodies myself, so I'm sure I wouldn't be bad at it."
James had to cough multiple times to stifle his laughter, though he couldn't help but let his goofy grin slip back onto his face.
"Believe me, George, burying a man and burying a pet are two completely different things."
"Oh, I know! One takes much longer but is way more satisfying when it's done. I just envy you for not having to go into the middle of the woods at night to bury people."
"I suppose you could see it that way…"
James didn't seem to process what George had said, nodding absentmindedly with a vacant look in his eyes.
After what felt like an eternity to the poor undertaker, they finally arrived at their destination. Graves stretched out endlessly around them.
The rest of the guests arrived a few minutes later, with old Bernard bringing up the rear. George didn't have time to wonder why the Director wasn't participating in the ceremony. James turned to address the group, preparing to deliver the eulogy.
"Ladies and gentlemen,
We are gathered here today to say farewell to John, a person who touched the lives of many in various ways. In this moment of pain and sadness, we come together to honor his memory and celebrate the life he lived.
John was a loyal individual, known for his selflessness and dedication. His presence always brought compassion and respect. He will be missed, and he will remain in our hearts forever.
It is hard to find the words to express what we all feel at this moment. The loss of John leaves a great void, but we must remember the moments of joy and the precious memories we shared with him.
Today, we say goodbye, but we know that his spirit will always be with us, watching over his loved ones and friends. May we find strength in the love and support we share here, and may we honor his memory by living our lives with the same generosity and compassion he showed.
I now invite you to a moment of silence, to reflect on John's life and what he meant to each of you."
James paused for a few moments.
George wished he had more memories with John beyond his grandfather's funeral, but he didn't. To George, John had been a legend, one you could only meet if he allowed it.
"Thank you all for coming today to pay your respects. May he rest in peace."
James concluded his speech, offering his condolences to each guest before leaving them to have a private moment with the deceased.
'At least someone cried at my grandfather's funeral,' George thought, glancing skyward to avoid watching the farce in front of him. The clouds were already dark and foreboding, promising an incoming storm. Maybe if he left now, he could get out of the rain—but even he doubted that.
He cast one last look at the pristine grave.
'I wonder how God will judge you. With any luck, I might be able to use your name to spend a few days in heaven. On that note, goodbye, my prince.'
He bowed his head slightly and turned to leave. However, as he took his first step, his phone rang. He answered it without much thought.
"Who's this, and who's the target?"
"I didn't think you'd actually show up."
It wasn't the voice George was expecting, but a radiant smile spread across his face.
"You have cell service where you are, sir?"
"Yes," the voice replied.
"I didn't think technology had advanced that much... I have one last request while I'm at it."
"I'm listening."
"I'd like not to die from some sneaky sniper's bullet. I'd at least like you to show up in person to kill me."
The voice didn't respond for several seconds.
"Very well, I'll come personally to finish you off."
The man hung up.
BANG
Alex Reddick collapsed to the ground without a sound.
"SNIPER!"
Most of the guests ducked behind tombstones to avoid the second shot, but not Bernard or George.
Bernard was trying to stop his already-dead son's bleeding with his hands, while George stepped closer to Alex's corpse to give him a light kick.
"This guy's definitely dead. Good thing we're in a cemetery; we can bury him right here without needing the undertaker."
He shot a quick glance at Bernard's face.
'The old man's lost his mind,' George thought, stepping back a few paces.
In situations like this, they needed to either find an exit, confront the shooter, or stay put and wait for outside help. Each option had its own advantages and disadvantages, leaving George uncertain about which to choose.
"IT'S BECAUSE OF YOU AND YOUR DAMN SCHEMES THAT HE'S DEAD!" Bernard roared, rising over his son's body. His once pristine suit was now soaked in blood, and all his restraint had vanished, replaced by unbridled rage.
His bloodshot eyes locked onto the large man like a starving beast ready to pounce on its prey. The man was without his bodyguards, making it seem like the perfect moment to settle things.
Yet, just as Bernard drew his pistol—
BANG
A bullet struck the back of his skull, piercing his brain and exiting through one of his eyes. Bernard was dead before he even hit the ground, not getting the chance to see his killer.
His body crashed onto the slate ground with a heavy thud, sending crimson leaves scattering in all directions.
Despite George stepping back, several drops of blood splattered onto his suit.
He shot a disapproving glance at Jo, who was lowering his gun, the barrel still smoking.
'He won't get very far if he goes around killing off his own grandpa army,' George thought, pulling out his second pistol from his briefcase.
He probably wouldn't need it, but he liked having a gun in each hand.
The other guests tensed at the sight of George drawing a weapon. Some instinctively placed a hand on their own, ready to pull it at a moment's notice. Jo, too, seemed to be weighing whether to get rid of a thorn in his side.
'Looks like I don't belong here,' George thought, stepping back a few more paces.
BANG
A bullet whizzed past his ear. The sniper had fired a second shot, and this one had missed. It skimmed George's shoulder, coming just inches away from his heart.
'Is that how you keep promises?' George thought, turning to the west.
Despite the storm picking up, the wind howling stronger and stronger, that bullet had been meant for him.
'If you don't want to show yourself, let me come to you.'
George had already made his decision. He began running in the opposite direction of the exit, heading west, with his blood already boiling in anticipation of the duel he had long awaited.
He sprinted for several hundred meters, the distance between him and the sniper shrinking with every passing second, but the third shot never came. George arrived at an open space, breathing heavily after running nearly 500 meters in record time.
The sniper could have set up an ambush, could have fired as soon as George came into view—but nothing.
Because there was no one behind the scope.
"What the hell is this!?"
Before George stood a sniper rifle several meters long. It was mounted on hydraulic legs, with a massive scope attached above the sight. The entire setup had been hidden beneath a pile of leaves, making it nearly impossible to spot from even a few meters away.
"THIS IS THE DUEL YOU PROMISED ME?!"
No one answered him, the wind drowning out some of his shouts. As he approached, ready to vent his frustration by dismantling the rifle, a loud mechanical sound echoed.
SCREECH
The barrel of the sniper rifle swiveled toward him.
BANG
The bullet hit him. He wasn't as lucky as the first time. It didn't strike his heart but instead shattered a part of his spine. George couldn't tell whether that was fortunate or not. A shot to the heart would have killed him instantly, while this wound would leave him a few more minutes to live. He would have liked to try and stop the bleeding, but he couldn't.
First, because he couldn't move any of his limbs, and second, because there was nothing he could do.
The wound needed immediate treatment if he wanted any chance of survival. But no one was coming to his rescue within the next few minutes, leaving him to bleed out alone among the leaves and graves.
'He lied to me…'
Even as the end neared, that thought dominated George's mind.
He closed his eyes in exhaustion, losing track of time. Seconds or minutes could have passed in the outside world—he couldn't tell the difference. All he knew was that he kept bleeding, and there wasn't much blood left in him.
'I must be hallucinating…' he thought, trying to open his eyes.
He could hear footsteps approaching. He tried desperately to open his eyes, but his eyelids were too heavy.
What he did feel, however, was the cold metal of a silencer pressed against his forehead.
"I came as promised. Why did you have to follow this path?"
George's response took several seconds to come, his voice raspier than usual.
"We'll meet again in hell, won't we?"
The man gave a small, sorrowful chuckle.
"Maybe I'll be joining you there soon enough."
A radiant smile spread across George's lips.
"We'll have our duel then..."
His voice was barely a whisper.
PEW
PEW
PEW
George felt his consciousness waver before it finally faded into nothingness.