#### Frankfurt, Germany – 11:47 PM
The underground parking garage exuded a damp, metallic odor mixed with the sharp tang of gasoline. Puddles of rainwater reflected the dim overhead lights, casting ghostly glimmers on the concrete floor. The faint hum of a distant engine created a low, almost inaudible drone that reverberated off the walls. Otherwise, the space was eerily silent, the kind of silence that felt like it could shatter with a single sound. Perfect.
Leon Graves leaned casually against a sleek black sedan, his dark attire blending into the shadows. His eyes, sharp and calculating, remained fixed on the elevator doors. His target, Nicholas Carter, emerged, adjusting his tie with the nonchalance of a man accustomed to late nights at the office. Unbeknownst to him, these would be his last moments alive.
The moment Carter's car beeped in response to the key fob, Leon moved with the lethal precision of a predator. He closed the distance in a heartbeat. A swift, practiced strike to the throat left Carter gasping, eyes wide with shock. Before the man could react, Leon's arm encircled his neck in a chokehold, expertly cutting off the blood flow to his brain. Carter's desperate thrashing was futile; Leon's grip was unyielding.
Seven seconds. That's all it took.
Carter's body went limp, his life extinguished in mere moments. Leon dragged the lifeless form into a nearby maintenance closet, working with methodical efficiency. Stripping Carter of his suit, ID badge, and access card, Leon displayed the precision of a surgeon. From his case, he retrieved a state-of-the-art mask printer—a sleek device designed for one purpose: deception.
He positioned the device over Carter's face. The scanner hummed softly, capturing every contour, every minute detail of the skin. Within minutes, a perfect replica mask was ready. Leon carefully peeled it from the mold and pressed it onto his own face. The material bonded seamlessly, adapting to his bone structure as if it were a second skin.
He checked his reflection in the sedan's tinted window. Nicholas Carter's face stared back at him, down to the last freckle.
Satisfied, Leon straightened his tie, grabbed Carter's briefcase, and strode confidently toward the entrance of Langley Industries.
---
#### Langley Industries – 73rd Floor, CEO's Office
Richard Langley leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, the soft glow of his desk lamp highlighting the expensive whiskey swirling in his glass. He was oblivious to the impending threat, engrossed in the smooth burn of the aged spirit.
Leon—now Nicholas Carter—moved through the building with calculated ease. The late-night corporate environment, a maze of glass and steel, was populated by executives lost in their own world of spreadsheets and deadlines. They barely acknowledged his presence. The keycard, now his ticket to the inner sanctum, worked flawlessly, granting him access to the CEO's private office.
Langley finally looked up, a frown creasing his brow. "Carter, what the hell are you doing here this late?"
Leon remained silent, his eyes cold and unyielding. In a fluid motion, he drew a silenced pistol from inside his jacket.
The gun whispered its deadly intent with a muffled cough.
A single shot. Langley's eyes widened in shock as the bullet pierced his skull, his body convulsing before slumping lifelessly onto the polished mahogany desk. Blood pooled beneath his head, a crimson halo. The whiskey glass slipped from his fingers, shattering into a spray of crystal shards.
Leon moved swiftly, his actions precise and unhesitating. He plugged a data wipe device into Langley's computer, erasing surveillance footage, financial records, and any trace of his presence. With meticulous care, he removed the face mask, folding it neatly and slipping it into his pocket.
By the time the alarm was raised and security discovered the body, Nicholas Carter would be a missing person.
And Leon Graves?
He would be a ghost, never seen, never heard.
---
#### Leon's Apartment – 2:13 AM
Leon sat at his sleek, minimalist desk, the soft glow from his computer screen casting long shadows across the room. He booted up his secure web platform, a labyrinthine system buried under layers of encryption. No phone calls, no direct communication. Just data, money, and death.
A new message flashed across the screen:
"Payment received. Contract closed. Transfer: €2,000,000."
Leon leaned back, exhaling slowly. Two million euros for one life. Efficient. Clean.
But for him, it wasn't just about the money. It was about his brand—a reputation built on one unbreakable rule:
If you don't pay, you don't live.
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