The rifle feels right in my hands. Balanced. Heavy but not clumsy. The bipod rests steady against the unfinished concrete ledge. The scope hums faintly as I dial it in.
I've done this a hundred times. Probably more. The procedure doesn't change. Distance, angle, wind. You don't improvise with a rifle—you calculate. Every variable, every factor. You do the math, then the math does the killing.
Through the scope, the glass tower across the street becomes my whole world.
I see him. Murakami. That hunched frame, the way his hand trembles while holding the phone. His voice must be shaking too, even though I can't hear it. He paces the office like a rat in a trap.
People like him are always the same. Corporate middlemen. They think they're untouchable because they work in glass towers and wear tailored suits. But glass cracks, and suits don't stop bullets.
I let the crosshairs follow him. His bald head gleams under the fluorescent light. He rubs the back of his neck, wipes his forehead with a tissue. Every little nervous tick makes the shot easier. Predictable movement means predictable timing.
I breathe in. Hold. Exhale slow.
Just like always.
But then—
Something shifts.
Not him. The room. The reflection.
In the glass behind Murakami, something moves. A shape.
At first, I think it's a trick of light. Maybe another worker in the corridor outside. But no—the angle's wrong. The corridor is empty.
The reflection is inside the office.
A figure. Standing close behind Murakami.
But in the scope—Murakami is alone. There's no one physically in the room. His reflection shows only him. But the glass shows two.
I blink, reset my eye to the scope, check the corners of the room. Empty.
Back to the reflection.
The figure is still there.
It's tall, blurred around the edges. No clear face, just a smudge of shadow where features should be. But its posture is unmistakable—leaning forward, like whispering something directly into Murakami's ear.
A pulse thuds in my temple. For the first time tonight, my rhythm slips.
"Hallucination," I mutter under my breath. "Eyes playing tricks. Focus."
I realign the scope. Crosshairs dead-center on Murakami's skull. Perfect shot.
Then it happens.
A sound. Not in the room. Not in the street. Inside me.
A whisper. Low. Close.
Two words:
"Not yet."
My finger freezes on the trigger.
The air feels thick, heavy. Like the building itself is pressing down on me. My breathing quickens despite myself.
I pull back from the scope, rub my eyes hard, then check again.
Murakami is still pacing, still on the phone. Alone.
But the reflection—no, the thing—is closer now. Practically leaning over him.
And the whisper lingers in my skull. Not echoing. Not fading.
Firm. Commanding.
Not yet.
---
I should take the shot. Logic says so. The job says so. The money, the ledger, the rules of my trade—all of it says squeeze the trigger and walk away.
But my body doesn't move.
It's like something invisible has reached through the scope and wrapped around my hand. Not forceful, but absolute. The same way a red light stops a driver, even on an empty road.
Murakami sits down now, head in his hands, the phone cradled against his ear. He looks like a broken man. Sweat stains spread across his shirt.
And the reflection? Still there. Standing over him, still whispering.
I grip the rifle harder, jaw clenched.
This isn't possible. Shadows don't move independent of their owners. Reflections don't lie.
But here it is.
---
A sound jolts me—the scrape of footsteps behind me.
I spin fast, pistol already in hand. A guard? A squatter?
No one. Just the wind through scaffolding, rattling loose metal sheets.
I stay frozen, pistol out, until the silence settles again. My heart thuds against my ribs. I holster it slowly, force myself to breathe steady.
I turn back to the rifle.
Murakami is still alive. Still waiting. Still trapped in that glass box.
And I hear it again.
Fainter, but clear.
"Not yet."
---
I whisper back without thinking.
"Who are you?"
The words sound stupid in my own mouth, like I've cracked. Talking to shadows.
But the silence answers. Not empty silence—weighted silence.
Like someone listening.
I check the reflection again. The figure's head has turned slightly. Toward me.
My stomach knots. My trigger finger twitches.
This is wrong. This is dangerous.
I should abort. Pack up, leave, vanish before the job spirals. That's the professional move. No hesitation.
But instead, I stay. I watch.
Because something about this—this impossible reflection—has hooked deeper than the contract itself.
And I can't walk away yet.
---
Minutes stretch like hours.
Murakami slumps at his desk, one hand rubbing his temples. His lips move—pleading, begging into the phone. Maybe he's talking to a lawyer. Maybe his boss. Doesn't matter. He's a dead man walking.
Except I haven't killed him yet.
The figure behind him shifts again. Slowly, deliberately. Its blurred hand rises, rests almost tenderly on his shoulder. Murakami doesn't flinch. Doesn't notice.
And I swear the reflection smiles.
That's when the whisper returns.
Different this time.
Three words.
"You see me."
I jerk back from the scope, heart slamming in my chest. My hands are steady—always steady—but now they shake.
I rub my face, curse under my breath.
This is madness. I don't believe in ghosts, in spirits, in anything supernatural. I deal in flesh and blood. Things that bleed, things that stop breathing when their hearts burst.
But that voice. That reflection.
It's real.
Too real.
---
I almost don't notice the phone buzzing in my pocket. Ishida.
I hesitate, then answer.
"You're late," his voice rasps. Calm. Cold. Always the same.
I glance at the scope. Murakami's still alive.
"Complication," I say. My voice sounds different. Tighter.
Ishida is silent for a long second. Then: "Complication doesn't pay. Finish it."
The line goes dead.
I put the phone away, stare down at the rifle.
Finish it.
That's the rule. That's the job.
But the whisper lingers, louder than Ishida's voice now.
Not yet.
---
I stay in that building for hours. Watching. Waiting. Listening to whispers that shouldn't exist.
For the first time in years, I don't pull the trigger.
And that's when I know—
My ledger isn't balanced anymore.
Something's writing in it that isn't me.
Something that shouldn't exist.
And it's just getting started.
---