They call me a hitman.
That's the word most people use. It sounds clean, efficient, like a tool in a toolbox. Something you pick up, use, and put away again.
I don't call myself that.
When you strip away the glamour, the rumors, the underworld bullshit… what am I, really?
I'm just a man who kills for money.
That's it. Nothing poetic. Nothing noble. No "honor among thieves." Just numbers and blood. A contract comes in, money changes hands, and I erase someone's existence.
I don't do it out of hate. Hate gets in the way. It shakes your hands, fogs your vision, makes you sloppy. And sloppy men don't last long in my profession.
I don't do it out of mercy either. Mercy is something priests and mothers talk about, not men like me.
I do it because I can. Because I'm good at it. Because I understand what it means to take someone's life and not carry it with me.
Or at least, I thought I understood.
---
The city I work in doesn't have a name, at least not one I care to remember. People call it all sorts of things. Some dress it up with words like "metropolis" or "economic powerhouse." Others curse it as a pit, a maze, a graveyard where the lights never go out.
For me, it's just the environment.
This city is an animal. A living thing. Its veins glow neon and pump through glass skyscrapers. Its breath stinks of gasoline and cheap cigarettes. Its heartbeat is a rhythm of footsteps, sirens, and metal shutters slamming closed.
I've seen other cities. Smaller ones. Cleaner ones. But this place? It's different. It doesn't just host people. It feeds on them.
And people feed on each other.
That's where I come in.
Every society has parasites. Men like me are just more honest about it.
---
You probably expect me to say I had a tragic childhood. That I was beaten, abandoned, forced into crime to survive. That's what makes the audience clap, isn't it? A backstory to make the monster easier to digest.
But I don't have one for you.
Sure, my childhood wasn't sunshine and flowers. Whose is? But the truth is simple: I chose this. I found I had a talent, and I used it. Just like the stockbroker who manipulates numbers, or the surgeon who slices open a body.
I just work in a different currency.
Death.
---
I usually work alone, but I'm not invisible. You can't operate in this city without a network. Mine is small but reliable. A fixer here, a fence there, a man who launders money when needed.
The one I deal with most often is my handler. Name's Ishida. He's not really a friend, but he's close to the role.
My phone buzzes on the table beside me. I don't need to look to know it's him. Only two people ever contact me, and one of them is already dead.
I swipe the call open.
"Ishida," I say.
"Professional as ever," his voice comes through, slick and nasal. I can almost hear the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Got another contract for you. Clean, simple. The kind of job you like."
"Who?"
"Middle manager. Name's Murakami. Works for Seido Corporation. He skimmed from the wrong account. Bosses want him gone before sunrise."
"Details?"
"Office, downtown. Still working late, probably begging for his life on the phone right now. Standard payout. No heat, unless you make it messy."
"Fine."
"Good man. I'll expect confirmation."
The line clicks dead. No goodbyes. No wasted words. That's our relationship. Transactional. Precise.
I slip the phone into my pocket and glance at the clock. Almost midnight. The job window is short.
That's fine. Short windows are easier. Less time to think.
I pack what I need: rifle, suppressor, rainproof coat, gloves. Everything fits into a plain black case. To the outside world, I'm just another office worker dragging home unfinished business.
Inside, I carry death.
---
The rain starts as I step out into the night. Not heavy. Just a steady drizzle that slicks the pavement and turns neon signs into shimmering puddles.
The crowd doesn't thin, even at this hour. Salarymen stumble from bars, students laugh too loudly in groups, couples argue in whispers. None of them notice me. None of them care. That's the beauty of this city—you're invisible in plain sight.
I move through it all like a shadow.
When I work, I don't drink. I don't eat. I don't feel. I just calculate. Every step is a number, every decision an equation.
And tonight, the math says Murakami dies.
At least, that's what I thought.
---