I left the rifle on the ledge longer than I should have. Too long. The contract wasn't completed. That fact burned through me the entire walk out of the building, down the stairwell, into the wet streets of Shinkyo.
I didn't take the shot.
I should've. A professional doesn't hesitate. A professional never lets voices in his head get in the way of money. But I did.
Now the balance is off.
---
The city is still alive at 3 a.m. The sidewalks are wet, glowing with the reflections of neon. Traffic lights blink over empty intersections. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, and it sounded less like urgency, more like ritual.
I kept my hood low, hands in my pockets, the pistol still warm at my hip. My heartbeat had finally slowed, but the whisper still crawled in the back of my skull.
Not yet.
That voice. Low, steady. It wasn't my imagination. I'd stake my entire career on my perception, on my ability to separate real from unreal. And this… this was real.
Or at least, it felt more real than the damp air against my face.
---
The phone buzzed again. Ishida.
I thought about ignoring it, but that wasn't an option. He doesn't call twice unless he wants answers.
I answered, keeping my tone flat. "It's done."
"Done?" His voice carried suspicion. "You sound off."
I glanced at the puddles on the sidewalk. My reflection stared back, pale under the neon glare. Just me. No shadow figure leaning over my shoulder. At least not this time.
"It's done," I repeated, forcing calm into my voice. "He won't be a problem."
There was a pause. I knew he was weighing my words. Ishida doesn't ask questions unless he already knows the answers. He's the kind of man who verifies.
"You'll collect tomorrow," he said finally. His tone was thin. Not quite trust. Not quite doubt. "Don't be late."
The line cut off.
---
Tomorrow.
That gave me twelve hours to decide what story I was going to tell. Because Murakami was still breathing somewhere in that office, trembling into his phone, thanking whatever god he believed in for another night alive.
And me? I was the idiot who gave him that night.
---
Back at my apartment, I peeled off my jacket and dropped the pistol on the counter. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and damp wood. The walls were bare, the furniture minimal. One table, one chair, one bed.
A hitman doesn't need more than that. Anything else becomes a weakness.
I unzipped the rifle case, slid the weapon inside, and locked it. My hands should've been steady. They weren't.
I sat at the table, staring at the faint reflection in the window. Rain streaks cut across the glass. The city glowed beyond—neon signs in red and green, the blurred movement of traffic.
For a moment, it was normal. Just me in my own place. No one else.
Then, in the corner of my eye, the reflection shifted.
My breath froze.
The glass showed more than one shape.
Behind me, blurred and dark, stood the figure.
No sound this time. No whisper. Just the presence. Watching.
I didn't turn. I didn't need to. Because I knew if I turned, there'd be nothing there. That was the game it played. It existed only where reality bent: in the glass, in the edges of vision, in the silence between breaths.
But still—my hand drifted to the pistol. Just to feel the weight. Just to remind myself what was solid.
I stared straight ahead. The figure stayed in the glass. Unmoving.
After a long while, I spoke. My voice sounded strange in the quiet apartment.
"What do you want from me?"
Nothing.
Only my own face looking back at me. Pale, tired, eyes rimmed red from staring too long down a scope.
And behind it, the shadow.
Watching.
---
I didn't sleep. Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the whisper again. Sometimes not yet. Sometimes you see me. Sometimes only silence so heavy it pressed down on my chest.
I sat in that chair until dawn bled through the blinds. My cigarette pack ran out by the time the clock hit six.
By seven, the city was awake again. The streets filled with workers, students, vendors shouting for morning business. Life moving forward.
I moved with it, hood low, rifle case slung over my shoulder.
The meet was at noon. Ishida would be waiting.
And I didn't know if I was walking into a payday or a grave.
---
The café was tucked into the base of a tower. Ordinary. Forgettable. A good place for a handoff.
Ishida was already there when I arrived. He always was. A small man, wiry, skin like paper stretched over bone. He dressed plain, no jewelry, no signals of wealth. His power wasn't in appearance. It was in the way he watched you—like he already knew the shape of your soul.
I sat across from him. Ordered nothing.
He slid an envelope across the table. Thick with bills. The smell of currency clung to it.
"Efficient work," he said. His voice was dry, like he'd never needed water. "As always."
I looked at the envelope, then at him. I didn't touch it.
"Murakami's dead?" he asked.
My throat felt tight. I kept my tone level. "He won't be a problem."
That pause again. His eyes narrowed slightly. He studied me the way a surgeon studies an open wound.
For the first time in years, I realized he might see the truth. That maybe Ishida knew when a killer lied.
But he said nothing. He only leaned back and sipped his coffee.
The envelope stayed between us.
---
And then—
Something flickered.
Not in the room. In the glass window behind Ishida.
My chest tightened.
There it was again. The figure. Standing not behind Ishida, but behind me.
Watching us both.
I didn't react. I couldn't. Ishida's gaze was sharp enough to catch a heartbeat out of place.
But I saw it.
And the reflection leaned in close, just like before.
This time the whisper came not as sound, but as movement on Ishida's lips. For a fraction of a second, it looked like Ishida himself mouthed the words.
Not yet.
---
I blinked. Ishida stirred his coffee.
Nothing unusual.
But the shadow stayed in the glass.
I reached forward finally, took the envelope, slipped it inside my jacket.
"Until next time," Ishida said.
I nodded once, stood, and walked out of the café.
The money weighed heavy in my pocket.
But heavier still was the realization that I wasn't imagining any of this.
Because now, the reflection wasn't just following the targets.
It was following me.