Agent X had never hesitated before.
His training—his very existence—was built on precision, efficiency, and cold detachment. A mission was a mission. A target was a target. Yet, as he stood over Senator Jonathan Reynolds, the weight of the knife in his hand felt different.
The man wasn't struggling. Not yet.
He was awake, staring up at his would-be assassin, frozen between fear and confusion. Why hadn't he screamed? Why hadn't he reached for the panic button likely hidden somewhere nearby?
"Who sent you?" Reynolds whispered. His voice was steady despite the situation.
X didn't answer. He wasn't here to talk.
Kill him. Finish the job.
His fingers tightened around the knife's grip. One swift motion, a clean cut across the throat, and it would be over.
And yet—he didn't move.
The gun misfire had been impossible. A mistake he never made. Someone had tampered with his weapon. Someone had planned for this.
For the first time in his career, doubt twisted through his mind like a slow-burning fuse.
Was he being set up?
A noise from the hallway snapped him back to reality. Footsteps. Fast, urgent. The guards must have noticed something was wrong.
X cursed under his breath. The window. It was his only way out.
He turned toward the glass, prepared to shatter it and disappear into the London night—but Reynolds spoke again.
"You don't want to do this, do you?"
The question hit harder than it should have.
X didn't answer. He had already moved, his instincts taking over. In one fluid motion, he grabbed a nearby vase and hurled it at the wall—just loud enough to distract the incoming guards. Then, he lunged toward Reynolds, gripping the senator's shirt and shoving him against the bed.
"Stay down. Stay silent."
Before the man could react, X moved toward the window, slicing through the curtains. A twelve-story drop. Nothing but wind and empty space below.
The door burst open behind him.
"Senator?" One of the guards rushed in, weapon drawn.
X was already gone.
He didn't jump blindly. His mind had already calculated the route before his feet even left the floor.
A maintenance scaffold. Six meters down. If he hit it wrong, he'd break something.
He twisted midair, reaching out—his fingers catching the metal railing just in time. The impact sent a jolt through his shoulders, but he ignored the pain. No room for error now.
Above, the guards were shouting. A gunshot cracked the air, sparking against the railing just inches from his hand. They were shooting.
He moved fast, scaling the scaffold and leaping to the fire escape below. His boots barely touched the metal before he launched himself downward again, dropping from level to level like a phantom.
By the time he reached the alley, the guards were still scrambling above, their flashlights cutting through the darkness.
He was already gone.
The black sedan was waiting at the extraction point. X slid inside, heart still steady, mind racing.
The driver didn't speak. He simply pulled away, merging into the quiet London streets.
Control's voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade.
"Report."
X exhaled slowly. "Mission compromised."
A pause. "The target?"
X stared out the window. The city lights blurred past, streaks of gold and white against the darkness.
"Alive."
Another silence. Then, Control spoke again—calm, controlled, but with a dangerous edge.
"Understood. Return to base immediately."
X closed his eyes.
He knew what that meant.
He wasn't being called back for a debriefing.
He was being called back for elimination.