In a discreet office on the outskirts of a large city, Bryan arrived without drawing any attention. The urban sounds were left behind as he entered a seemingly ordinary building, its aging façade going unnoticed by the unobservant passersby. Through the dimly lit corridors, one could smell a touch of mold and a faint hint of tobacco, as if both were ingrained in the walls.

Stepping into that place stirred up many memories: it was there, years ago, that he had taken his first steps toward a life entirely different from the one he had lived on the streets. As he walked, he noticed fewer people around than usual. Perhaps it was just a calm day—or maybe a sign of the tension in the air. In his mind, hypotheses about what might explain this somber atmosphere swirled, but he refrained from any conclusions without concrete evidence.

Finally, he reached the dark wooden door that he knew led to Byron's office. Up close, scratches along the door frame were visible, like scars of past violent encounters. Bryan took a deep breath, as though trying to draw in all the courage he needed for the conversation he was about to have. The habit of breathing deeply before entering a dangerous place was already ingrained in his body and soul, the result of harsh, relentless training.

When he turned the doorknob, the door creaked, announcing his presence. Upon entering, he found a room that, while not particularly large, felt oppressive by the way its furniture and lighting seemed to conspire to create a claustrophobic atmosphere. A single yellowish light bulb hung from the ceiling, wobbling on a dust-covered cord, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Heavy wooden furniture, marked by age, seemed positioned to intimidate any unwanted visitor.

Bryan's eyes quickly locked onto Byron, seated in his chair behind a polished desk strewn with papers. The man's posture was unmistakable, with a straight back, squared shoulders, and chin held slightly high. He appeared every bit a battle-hardened general, though most of his battles had not been waged on conventional warfields, but rather in the dark alleys and clandestine operations orchestrated by the Trinity.

The criminal organization known as the Trinity, in which both men were involved, controlled much of the city's underworld. Its reach extended to arms trafficking, illegal goods smuggling, brazen theft, and meticulously planned assassinations. Everything was carried out with surgical precision, ensuring that the identities of key players remained hidden. Bryan, with his track record of unquestionable loyalty, had been molded to carry out dark deeds with military precision. In exchange, he received not only a roof over his head but also a sense of belonging he had never found on the streets.

Stepping into that office reminded him of his first time there as a teenager. Back then, Byron—at the time just a living legend in the corridors of the Trinity—had personally decided to evaluate this "promising youngster" everyone was talking about. Bryan hardly knew how to handle a firearm then, but he had demonstrated proficiency with blades and a coldness of spirit that quickly caught Byron's attention. From then on, he became a disciple—a person to whom Byron would teach everything he knew about the craft of taking lives without leaving a trace.

Now, however, Byron's face looked more rigid than usual, as if his very features had turned to stone. There was a brief moment when their gazes met—an instant that lasted less than a second but seemed to stretch on for far longer. Bryan, his black hair cropped in a military style, tried to remain composed, though a hint of unease fluttered inside him. He knew Byron well enough to sense something was amiss.

Byron, in turn, had his eyebrows slightly furrowed but gave no sign of his true emotions. Bryan took a few steps forward, standing before the desk with his head held high and shoulders squared. The silence that followed was as heavy as an anvil.

"Greetings, Mr. Byron," Bryan said, keeping his voice as steady as possible.

A faint nod from Byron was the initial response before he spoke with his usual icy tone:

"To what do I owe the honor, Mr. Bryan?"

Bryan then produced a plain brown envelope from inside his jacket. It contained documents that confirmed he had completed a particularly challenging mission involving the elimination of a high-profile businessman cooperating with the local government—someone who had gone against the interests of the Trinity in recent months. Bryan handed over the envelope, its seal still evidencing the seriousness of the job.

"I completed the mission as agreed," he announced, placing the envelope carefully on the desk.

Byron took it, briefly reviewing its contents, then raised his eyes again, regarding Bryan with a look of disdain. The dull yellow light reflected off Byron's eyes, giving them an even colder, more calculating appearance.

"As always, you carry out everything with precision and excellence." His words rang solid but lacked genuine praise, more like a routine acknowledgement of the deed. A long sigh slipped through his lips. "What a waste…"

That final remark sounded strangely out of place, as though Byron were lamenting something Bryan did not understand. "A waste of what?" Bryan wondered silently. Before he could utter a single question, a flash appeared at the edge of his field of vision.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. Bryan, who had spent years honing his ability to recognize threats, had no time to react. He felt a sharp, piercing jolt surge through his chest, almost like an electric shock. Glancing downward, he saw the blade glinting under the yellowish light, embedded in his body with surgical precision. Blood instantly began to stain his shirt, forming a crimson circle that spread far too rapidly.

His legs, once so steady, became unstable, and by reflex, he collapsed to the floor. His knees struck the cold floor, and a searing pain radiated through his chest. A single question, barely audible, escaped his lips:

"Why…?"

Byron, who still stood tall, put away the weapon without the slightest hesitation. His inscrutable expression could be read as cruelty, but in reality, it looked more like he was simply executing a calculated decision.

"A burn notice, kid… nothing personal," he said, pushing Bryan into even deeper confusion.

Bryan's mind raced, memories colliding with each other. He saw himself once again as a frail boy roaming the streets, stealing food, and running from bullies in filthy back alleys. He recalled how Byron had taken him in, offering him a chance at a life less miserable. He remembered the first lessons—lessons about honor, though it was an honor tainted by the Trinity's illicit activities.

Byron had always been an authority figure, almost paternal, in whom Bryan had placed all his faith. This was the man who had taught him to fight, handle swords and daggers, shoot firearms, and slip through the shadows unnoticed. This was the man whose approval Bryan had pursued relentlessly, believing it to be his only chance to avoid ending up again as a homeless drifter. And here he was, bleeding out on the floor, betrayed by that very man.

Each heartbeat spilled more blood onto the floor and sapped his strength. Bryan tried to lift his head and meet Byron's eyes, searching for any explanation, but he could not focus his gaze. He saw only the silhouette of the man who had once been everything to him: mentor, protector, family. It was like trying to see a distant, unreachable figure. The criminal organization Trinity, which Bryan had served so loyally, was now revealing how expendable he was in its grand power play.

The office—already oppressive—now seemed infinite, a void where time had stopped. The chill of the floor against Bryan's knees made him aware of his own fragility. His breathing turned shallow and erratic, and the taste of iron invaded his mouth. A maelstrom of emotions—anger, pain, sorrow, and bitter disappointment—raged within him. He, once known as one of the most efficient assassins in the Trinity, was paying the price for his own skill.

"How could you betray me like this…?" he wanted to ask, but only a faint whisper escaped.

Amid the confusion of his thoughts, he recalled how he had learned to wield daggers, training tirelessly until his wrists ached. He saw Byron's face on the day he completed a mission without leaving a single trace for the first time. There had been a subdued look of pride on that face then. Ironically, it was the same face now showing absolute indifference as Bryan's life ebbed away.

Byron said nothing more. He seemed to be following a script, as though all of this was part of a larger machine. Maybe someone else had given the order to "burn the file" to ensure that no sensitive information would leak. Maybe it was Byron's own decision, intended to safeguard his standing in the Trinity. Bryan couldn't be sure, and deep down, the reason no longer mattered. The undeniable fact remained that his death had been decreed, and now he lay there, powerless, as his life slipped away.

The office walls spun around him as his vision blurred. Blood streamed over his shirt, forming a glimmering pool in the flickering light. With each passing second, the sound of his heartbeat grew dimmer, as though he were sinking into deep water, where all was silence and darkness. Still, somewhere in his mind, a single thought rang out:

"Those who live by the sword die by the sword."

It was practically a mantra among assassins and mercenaries, repeated during training as a reminder that the same blade that protected and fed you might one day seal your fate. Bryan, who had viewed the sword as a symbol of power and personal protection, now felt that same steel cutting through his flesh, ending his story in the most brutal way.

On his knees, breathing erratically, he tried in vain to prop himself upright. Ultimately, he pitched forward, bracing himself with one hand on the floor in an attempt to get up. But the pain was overwhelming. A burning sensation shot through his chest and spread along his ribs, robbing him of his balance. Out of strength, he fell, his face pressing against the cold floor.

His field of vision narrowed. The dark ceiling blurred, transforming into indistinct shapes. The smell of blood intermingled with the scent of tobacco and mold, as if it demanded he remain conscious of the grim reality of his end. Outside, the faraway sound of cars and human voices carried on, unnoticed, because no one imagined that behind closed doors, a man's life was being snuffed out with such indifference. In other circumstances, Bryan might have reflected on the irony of dying in a place he had once considered a haven.

In his final flicker of consciousness, he found himself thinking once more of Byron. He remembered being younger and the satisfaction he felt whenever that reserved mentor gave him a simple, curt "good job." He had never had any family or friends except Byron. He had never experienced genuine love or the warmth of a home beyond the walls of the Trinity. His entire world revolved around seeking that man's approval and ascending within the organization. And now, that man was the one who had signed his death warrant.

"He gave me everything, and now he's taking it all away," echoed in his mind as the pain faded to a distant, numbing sensation. Bryan's body, chilling rapidly, stiffened as his senses dulled, like a candle about to burn out. It was impossible to accept that everything was ending here, so swiftly, without even a hint of regret or hesitation from the only "teacher" he had ever had.

Byron stood just a few steps from where Bryan lay. His expression was unchanging, his eyes—once marked by a lifetime of battles—now bore only resignation. Perhaps he, too, in some part of himself, resented the need to kill his most gifted student, but if so, he showed no sign. After all, the criminal world allowed no place for emotions that might compromise a decision. In this life, people moved by orders or personal interests, never by sentiment.

Slowly, Bryan's pupils dilated, and a veil of darkness overtook his sight. The last sound he heard was his own struggling breath, followed by a deafening silence announcing the end. What had kept him alive and strong all these years—his determination, his desire to prove his worth—found no further place in this world. This was the moment where his story came to a close.

In that office, where the stench of gunpowder, blood, and secrets hovered in the air, Bryan's body finally rested, motionless. There would be no funeral, no tribute, no one to remember him. He was simply another file to be discarded, another hitman who, at the peak of his usefulness, was thrown away. For the Trinity, his death would end up as a few lines in some confidential report, with no more commentary than cold, calculated data about how the situation had been "handled."

Beyond those walls, life went on. The sun would still rise for ordinary people, and the newspapers would continue to feature scandals having nothing to do with this crime. Meanwhile, in some distant corner of the city, homeless children would beg for money, perpetuating the same cycle of misery Bryan had once known. Perhaps in a few years, another talented young person would emerge, and Byron—or someone else of the same rank—would recruit him, restarting the same old process. The underworld never paused for anyone.

For all its brutality, in that final moment, the only thing Bryan could recall was a memory of a sunny day. He had completed his first official assignment for the Trinity and, as a reward, Byron had taken him out for a proper meal—better than the scraps Bryan was used to scavenging in an alley. It was the first and only time he felt a genuine sense of pride in having someone call him by his chosen name, Bryan, like a sign he truly belonged somewhere. In contrast, that very man who had given him this name now cast him aside without a second thought.

Not a single tear escaped Bryan's eyes, for his body no longer obeyed him. Perhaps if he had been able, he would have shed some tears—not so much out of fear of dying, but out of the bitter realization that all his loyalty and effort had been reduced to a single act of violence in which he had no chance to defend himself. Yet nothing more could be done. His body lay in a growing pool of blood, cold and unresponsive.

In the silence that followed in the office, Byron lingered there a few more moments, making sure the job was finished. No words of compassion were uttered; it was as though all the lessons about courage, strength, and honor had been mere moves on a chessboard that was about to be reset. Once satisfied with his final inspection, Byron wiped the blade with a cloth, gathered a few papers from the desk, and left, leaving the door slightly ajar. His footsteps echoed in the corridor as they faded away, letting the office sink into a morbid stillness.

The flickering yellow bulb swung slightly overhead, emitting a faint electric buzz. Its swaying cast shifting shadows on the walls, like mocking specters. Outside, the city continued in its relentless routine, with cars passing by and people carrying on, ignorant of the murder that had occurred so close by and yet was so distant from their everyday reality.

For Bryan, everything was over. His final thought was the bitter acknowledgment that, in the underworld, any human bond was nothing but an illusion. Affection, gratitude, camaraderie—everything dissolved when survival or personal interests took precedence. He was the perfect example of this: a homeless child transformed into a precision weapon, and even so, he had not received a single ounce of mercy when his time came.

Thus, his body remained on the floor, a fusion of failure and loneliness, serving as a reminder that in the Trinity, no bond is unbreakable. Those who live by the sword inevitably die by the sword—and Bryan had learned that lesson in the most irreversible way. Over his brief career, he had carried out questionable deeds under Byron's orders without ever considering a different path. And it was precisely that obedience that led him, step by step, to this fatal moment.

No outside witness saw any of it, though rumors would spread through the stale hallways of that building and in whispered conversations throughout the Trinity's clandestine network. Some, upon hearing of Bryan's downfall, might quietly mourn, worrying about their own futures. Others, more experienced, would simply shake their heads, knowing this outcome was inevitable for anyone who stood out too much under the command of men as volatile and ruthless as Byron.

That night, the city remained lit by streetlights and car headlights, bustling with people living their routines, unaware of what had just happened in that small, inconspicuous office. Within those walls, the yellowish light still flickered, illuminating the body of a young man whose fate had been sealed by his own mentor. In the Trinity, every step is taken in the shadows, and for Bryan, the last step led him to a sharpened blade.

The underworld would not commemorate his demise, nor would it soon forget him. The streets that had once been his home now felt distant, as though they belonged to some other existence. The cycle of violence closed for Bryan, yet it continued for countless others who, at that very moment, were handling guns or carrying out covert orders from the organization's leadership. Practically speaking, he was now just one more grim story whispered in dark bars and alleys across the city.

In this way, Bryan's memory would survive as a warning, a grim parable for ambitious recruits: the same hand that guides and feeds you can become a deadly dagger when circumstances demand it. Such is the absolute truth in the Trinity, a place where the concept of family—so cherished by Bryan—was only ever a mirage, and where trust was a rarer and more valuable currency than gold, yet just as easily spent.

And so ended Bryan's life, once the exemplary student of Byron, who carried out the final mission of his life—not by his own choice but because, in the hierarchy of brutality, no one is safe from becoming the next "file" to be destroyed.

In the end, he discovered in the worst possible way that, for those who dwell in the shadows, the light never arrives to save—it only reveals their scars in a single, fleeting flash before plunging them back into eternal darkness. The office door remained ajar, as though it were a gateway to nothingness, an entrance to the void that spread within Bryan's chest until the moment his heart ceased to beat.

There was no parting word, no solace given. Only the echo of a merciless silence, his faltering breath, and the growing pool of blood. With his final shred of thought, Bryan surrendered to the inevitable, aware that this was the logical consequence of the path he had chosen in life. For those who pick up the sword for the Trinity, death comes by the sword—and, in that instant, no regret could save him.

When his body stopped moving, the world seemed to hold its breath for a second, then resumed its inexorable pace, leaving Bryan behind. If any memory of him lingered beyond the confines of the Trinity, it was only as a distant whisper, told by a few who might recall his youthful form, his solemn gaze, and his skill with blades. Yet even those memories would fade amid the haze of cigarettes and subdued conversations, for in the underworld, nothing remains alive for long—not even the memory of the dead.