Montrose City had its fair share of killers, but none were as feared as the nameless organization that worked in the shadows. They answered to no one—neither Antonio Vasquez nor any other crime family. Their loyalty was to money, and money alone. To hire them was to ensure death, swift and merciless.
The syndicates whispered about them in hushed tones, fearful of invoking their wrath. Their reach extended beyond Montrose, and their methods were precise. No warnings, no theatrics—just a target eliminated before the city even knew what had happened.
Tonight, in a high-rise apartment overlooking the neon-lit streets, a contract was being fulfilled. A man sat in his leather chair, swirling a glass of whiskey, oblivious to the fate creeping toward him. The balcony door slid open without a sound, and before he could turn, a blade kissed his throat.
He gasped, eyes wide in terror. "Wait, please—"
A whisper against his ear: "No negotiations."
The assassin pressed the blade deeper, and within moments, the man slumped forward, lifeless. The figure behind him wiped the weapon clean, left no trace, and disappeared into the night.
The organization had only one rule: never cross paths with Antonio Vasquez. It wasn't about respect—it was about survival. Antonio was the one variable they refused to gamble with. Every killer in Montrose knew the stories, the warnings, the unseen line that even death itself dared not cross.
And so, as the body cooled in the penthouse, the assassin vanished like a ghost, leaving behind nothing but silence.
In Montrose, the Blacks ruled the streets. The Greys survived in the cracks.
But the Assassins? They owned the shadows.
And the police? They were just there to cover up any sign of war.