The city skyline sparkled under the moonlight, its beauty masking the darkness lurking beneath. On the rooftop of a luxury high-rise, a man crouched in the shadows, a sniper rifle resting steadily against his shoulder.
Frank Williams, the underworld's deadliest mercenary, peered through the scope. His target was inside—Marcus Caldwell, one of the city's most successful businessmen, was alive with activity. Tonight, Caldwell was hosting a lavish party to celebrate a recent business triumph. The guests were high-profile figures—CEOs, investors, and celebrities—each one oblivious to the predator watching from above.
From his position on the rooftop, Frank could see everything. The security details, the camera placements, the routes leading to and from the study—he had it all mapped out. Caldwell's private office, where he would retreat for a quiet moment, was the perfect spot for the kill.
The client, one of Caldwell's rivals, had paid a fortune to see him dead. The man wanted Caldwell gone to clear the way for his own business empire. The offer was lucrative, and for Frank, it was just another job.
Caldwell wasn't a saint, but he wasn't a criminal either. Frank rarely took assignments like this, but the money had been too good to pass up.
"Just another job," Frank muttered under his breath, adjusting his aim.
Caldwell appeared, stepping into the study as expected. He looked every bit the successful entrepreneur—confident, poised, untouchable. Frank steadied his finger on the trigger.
Then, the door opened.
A little girl ran inside, laughing as she carried a stuffed animal in her arms. She leapt onto Caldwell's lap, and he caught her with ease, his face breaking into a wide grin.
The door to the study opened, and a little girl ran inside, her laughter filling the room. She couldn't have been more than six, her pigtails bouncing as she darted toward Caldwell.
"Daddy!" she called out, holding up a drawing in her tiny hands. "Look what I made for you!"
Frank's finger froze. Through the scope, he watched Caldwell scoop his daughter into his arms, a genuine smile spreading across his face.
"It's beautiful, sweetheart," Caldwell said, kissing her forehead. "You're such a talented artist."
Frank frowned, watching the scene through the scope. He adjusted the angle, trying to block out the noise in his head.
But it was hard to ignore.
The girl's laughter was so pure, so carefree. Caldwell's smile wasn't the polished facade he wore for his guests—it was real.
Moments later, Caldwell's wife entered, rolling her eyes with a playful smirk. "Marcus, you are spoiling her. She's supposed to be asleep."
Caldwell laughed, ruffling his daughter's hair before standing and handing her to his wife. He leaned down to kiss them both, a picture of warmth and love.
Frank lowered his rifle slightly, his breathing unsteady.
He thought back to his own life—a long series of empty hotel rooms, faces of targets he couldn't remember, and bloodstains that never quite washed away. He had been doing this for years, and what had it gotten him? Nothing.
No family. No love. No real purpose.
Frank's hand tightened around the rifle, his jaw clenched. Caldwell was a man with a life Frank could never have. A man who, as far as Frank could tell, didn't deserve to die.
He exhaled slowly and pulled back from the scope, sitting down with his back against the wall.
Back in his apartment, Frank's phone buzzed incessantly on the table. He picked it up and glanced at the screen: Boss.
With a sigh, he answered.
"Frank," the voice on the other end growled. "What's the status? Is Caldwell dead?"
Frank leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "The job's off."
There was a long silence before the boss spoke again, his tone sharp. "What do you mean, 'off'? The client paid double for this one. You don't get to change your mind."
"I'm not killing him," Frank said firmly. "He's not the kind of man I take out."
The boss's voice turned cold. "Since when do you care about the kind of man he is? You kill who we tell you to kill. That's the deal."
"Not anymore," Frank replied. "I don't kill innocents. Not for money, not for anyone and you know that too boss. Caldwell isn't a criminal; he's just a man trying to live his life. Assign the target to someone else."
A sigh came from the other side of the line. "Fine, Frank. You win this one. I'll assign Caldwell to someone else. But don't get too comfortable—we just got another request. A corrupt politician, neck-deep in dirty money. The opposition party wants him gone. No family, no strings attached. What do you say?"
Frank hesitated. For years, this would have been an easy answer. The kind of job he could do in his sleep. But now, for the first time, the words didn't come.
"Actually, boss..." He paused, searching for the right way to say it. "I've been thinking about stepping away. Leaving all this behind."
The silence on the other end was palpable before the boss's voice returned, sharp and disbelieving. "Leaving? What the hell are you talking about, Frank?"
"I mean it. I'm done with this life. I've been doing this for too long. I want something different—something real. A family, a normal life... something that doesn't end with a bullet in my head."
The boss laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "You're kidding, right? You think you can just walk away? You don't get to retire, Frank. Not from this. You know how many enemies you've made over the years? The second they hear you're out, they'll come for you. Every last one of them. And trust me, no matter how good you are, you can't fight them all."
Frank sighed, as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face was calm, but his eyes betrayed his resolve. "Then I'll deal with them. Like I always do."
"Don't be a fool, Frank," the boss snapped. "You're not invincible. You walk away, you're signing your own death warrant."
Frank chuckled, his confidence unwavering. "If that's the price for my freedom, so be it. I've always liked a challenge."
Without waiting for a response, he ended the call. Tossing the phone aside, he slumped on the bed.
The next day, the underworld retaliated. Contracts were issued, bounties raised, and Frank's betrayal became the talk of every shadowed corner.
At first, he handled the onslaught with ease. The assassins came one by one, and Frank dispatched them with precision and skill, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.
But they didn't stop.
Every hour brought new killers—some seasoned professionals, others desperate rookies chasing a payday. For each one he killed, two more took their place.
The relentless attacks pushed Frank to his limits. He moved constantly, staying ahead of his enemies, but the exhaustion began to wear him down. His body was covered in cuts and bruises, his movements slower, his strategies less calculated.
Finally, it happened.
In a grimy warehouse on the city's outskirts, surrounded by a mountain of bodies, Frank stood alone. His breathing was labored, his vision blurred, but he refused to fall.
With one last smirk, he muttered, "Not bad... for a day's work."
And then, the legendary killer collapsed.
Frank Williams was dead.