"Young Lord, the b-boss re-requests your presence." A deep, husky voice whispered through the door, though it still sounded far from quiet. It was a strange sight—an intimidating, bulky man bending slightly at the door, trying to whisper, though his attempt was far from subtle.
A light, eerie chuckle escaped from inside the room. "Tell him I'll be ready in thirty minutes," the voice called out lazily.
The guard winced at the sound of that voice, his unease palpable. Without another word, he quickly retreated as if a predator were chasing him.
Inside the lavish room, Azrael, a young man of about eighteen, sat upright on a king-sized bed, his eyes fixed on the newspaper in front of him. A teenager reading a newspaper? Odd, but not for Azrael. His mind was always sharp.
He flipped through the pages, stopping when a headline caught his eye:
"WHITE HOUSE ASSASSINATION ROCKS NATION: Mysterious 'Harvester' Claims Another Victim."
The article detailed how the notorious killer known as "The Harvester" had struck again, this time at the heart of American power. The piece went on to describe the elusive killer's deadly precision and his ability to vanish without leaving a trace. Azrael smirked.
"Looks like I've got another fan," he murmured, standing up from the bed.
Before the mirror, his reflection stared back at him—handsome, with long jet-black dreadlocks cascading down his back. Azrael ran his hands over his muscular chest and triceps. "Yep, I'm a work of art. Maybe I should walk the streets shirtless and make the girls fall at my feet..." He paused, then grinned at his reflection. "Aiya, what am I thinking?"
Though an assassin by trade, Azrael was anything but cold and stoic. His mentor, Cormac "The Shadow Hand" Kieran, had taught him that a true assassin doesn't live as the movies portrayed them—stern and emotionless. No one would ever suspect the charming Azrael to be the same person responsible for a trail of bodies.
Whistling a tune, Azrael stepped into the bathroom. Ten minutes later, he emerged, dressed in a sharp black Giorgio Armani three-piece suit. His movements were fluid as he brushed back his hair and checked his dual pistols, tucked carefully behind his trousers. He gave himself one last look in the mirror, blowing a playful kiss at his reflection before heading out.
Downstairs, his father, Mr. McLord, sat in his power wheelchair, munching loudly on a watermelon while watching TV.
"Ready?" he called, without turning his attention from the screen. "You seem energized today."
Azrael grinned. "Of course, I'm excited for the conference."
His father chuckled, knowing exactly what his son was referring to. "Yes, your work this morning was flawless as always. But I have a feeling there's something more at play here. Why else would the underworld be gathering for an emergency meeting of this scale…?"
"The assassination of the president," Azrael replied flatly.
Mr. McLord laughed loudly, turning to face his son. "Nice suit."
"Thanks," Azrael said with a nod.
A guard entered, standing at attention. "All set, sir."
"Let's move out," Mr. McLord ordered.
As the convoy of black cars pulled out of the estate, Azrael couldn't shake a growing sense of unease. Something felt off. His instincts, honed by years of training, never lied. There was danger ahead—immense danger. He tapped his ear pods, letting the music drown out his thoughts as his senses sharpened. Something was coming.