The night smelled of rain and gunpowder. High above the city of Berlin, Agent X stood at the edge of a rooftop, his silhouette blending into the dark. The cold wind tugged at his black tactical suit, but he remained still, his eyes locked onto the penthouse across the street. His heartbeat was steady. His breathing was measured.
A single target. One bullet. Clean kill.
Through the scope of his modified pistol, he observed his mark—Viktor Mikhailov, a former Russian intelligence officer turned international arms dealer. Mikhailov sat in a high-backed leather chair, laughing as he swirled a glass of whiskey. A blonde woman draped herself over his arm, giggling at a joke she barely understood. The man was celebrating, likely unaware that tonight would be his last.
X's gaze flicked to the other figures in the room. Four bodyguards. All professionals. Two near the entrance, one by the bar, another standing behind Mikhailov. All armed. None of them mattered.
"One shot. Clean kill. Exfil in under five minutes."
The voice in his earpiece was calm and detached. Control, his handler at Echelon, never wasted words.
X adjusted his stance, leveling his silenced pistol. His index finger tensed against the trigger. Through the scope, Mikhailov's expression froze for a brief second—just enough time for recognition.
Then, CRACK.
The bullet tore through the glass, finding its mark between Mikhailov's eyes. His head snapped back violently, whiskey spilling from his limp fingers. The woman beside him screamed, scrambling off the couch.
The guards reacted instantly. One reached for his radio. Another rushed to the window, scanning the buildings for movement. Too late.
X had already holstered his weapon and pivoted.
He sprinted across the rooftop, his footfalls barely making a sound against the wet concrete. Sirens wailed in the distance. The city was coming alive with flashing lights and panicked voices.
He reached the edge of the rooftop and leaped. Air rushed past his face as he soared through the darkness, his body twisting mid-air. He caught a metal railing on the adjacent building, using his momentum to swing onto a fire escape. His movements were fluid, precise—years of training honed to perfection.
Descending three flights in seconds, he landed in a narrow alleyway. The extraction vehicle was already waiting—a sleek, black sedan with tinted windows. The driver, a fellow Echelon operative, barely glanced at him before hitting the accelerator the moment X shut the door.
Inside, the car smelled of leather and gun oil.
Control's voice came through again. "Flawless as always. Mission complete. Head back to base."
X said nothing. He never did unless necessary. Words were a waste.
He stared out the window, watching the city blur past. Another mission. Another target eliminated. It should have felt routine.
But something was off.
Agent X didn't second-guess his orders. He didn't hesitate. He didn't feel. That's what they had drilled into him since childhood.
And yet, for the first time in years, a question lingered at the back of his mind.
Why Mikhailov?
Echelon never gave unnecessary details. They assigned a target, he executed, and the world moved on. But Mikhailov was no terrorist, no warlord orchestrating massacres. He was an arms dealer, sure—but nothing Echelon hadn't worked with before.
He clenched his jaw. It wasn't his job to ask questions.
The sedan pulled into an underground parking garage, its tires screeching slightly as it came to a stop. X stepped out without a word, walking toward the secure elevator at the far end. He scanned his hand against the biometric panel. A soft beep, then the doors slid open.
The ride down was silent. Dim fluorescent lights flickered as the elevator descended deep beneath the city. When the doors opened again, he was greeted by the cold, sterile environment of Echelon Headquarters—his home, his prison, his world.
The corridors smelled of disinfectant and steel. Other operatives moved in silence, their faces unreadable. No names. No conversations. That was the way of Echelon.
X made his way to the briefing room, where Control was waiting—a tall, lean man in a sharp gray suit. His expression was as cold as the room itself.
"Perfect execution," Control said, barely looking up from his tablet. "No civilian casualties. No trace left behind."
X nodded. That was the only response required.
Control tapped a few keys, pulling up a new dossier on the large screen behind him. The face of another man appeared—an American senator.
"Your next assignment is already in motion. Briefing in one hour."
X barely reacted. Another target. Another mission.
But deep inside, a small crack had formed. A single, dangerous thought.
What if he wasn't just a weapon?