The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Agent X sat in the debriefing room, his expression blank. The walls were gray, cold, and devoid of any personality—just like the organization that owned them.
Echelon.
He had been here for as long as he could remember. It wasn't a home. It wasn't even a prison. It was a machine, and he was just another cog—an instrument designed for one purpose.
Kill.
Control stood across from him, scrolling through a tablet. The man had no first name, no last name. No history, at least not one that X was aware of. But that was the way of Echelon. Nobody here had a past. Only missions.
"The Senator." Control's voice broke the silence. "His name is Jonathan Reynolds. A rising political figure in Washington. He's gaining influence, making moves that certain people don't like."
X barely reacted. He didn't care about politics. He didn't care about senators. He only cared about the job.
"Your orders are simple: eliminate him before his upcoming speech." Control tapped the screen, and an image of Reynolds appeared. A middle-aged man with graying hair, a firm jawline, and a politician's empty smile.
X studied the image, memorizing every detail.
"Location?" he asked, his voice emotionless.
"London. Security will be tight. This isn't a backroom arms dealer like Mikhailov. This is a public figure with a team of bodyguards, intelligence agents, and media attention. You'll need to be careful."
X simply nodded. He had done worse.
After the briefing, X made his way down the long, winding corridors of Echelon HQ. The underground facility was a maze, a fortress buried deep beneath Berlin's streets.
No windows. No fresh air. Just artificial lights and reinforced steel.
He passed by the training halls, where recruits were drilled in hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, and psychological conditioning. Their faces were blank, empty—just as his had once been.
Echelon didn't just train assassins. It built them.
He stopped at the armory, where a quartermaster handed him a new set of tools—two silenced pistols, a combat knife, and a modified sniper rifle. He checked each weapon with methodical precision before holstering them.
Prepared. Precise. Lethal.
That was what he had been made to be.
Hours later, he was on a private jet, bound for London. The flight was quiet, uneventful. He stared out the window, watching the clouds roll by.
For years, he had taken missions without hesitation. But ever since Mikhailov, something was different.
Why him?
Mikhailov had been a scumbag, but nothing more than a businessman in the shadows. And now, a senator? This wasn't about stopping terrorists or eliminating threats.
This was politics.
The realization sat uneasily in his mind. He forced it down. His thoughts didn't matter. He was just a weapon.
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "Touching down in ten minutes."
X straightened, clearing his mind. Doubt was dangerous. Hesitation was deadly.
For now, he had a job to do.
Mission first. Questions later.