Right. So. Got a contract dropped in my lap like a bloody flaming meat pie. Real fancy—encrypted file, no return address, message just said:

“Kill INV. Too dangerous to leave alive. Take his account when it’s done.”

Thought it was a prank at first. Y’know, one of those roleplay psychos who think they’re cryptids with Twitter handles.

But turns out the bloke was real. And popular.

Followers in the thousands. Cult-like fanbase. Art of him everywhere—too detailed, almost like people knew him too well. That kinda parasocial gets under your skin.

Anyway—job’s a job. I took the shot.

Kilo bolt-action. Suppressed. Dead center.

He was standin’ out in the open like he wanted it.

No flinch. No blood.

No fall.

Just… blinked out. Like a bloody VHS frame skipped.

Now I keep feelin’ somethin’. Like I’ve got a red dot on my soul.

Not a drone. Not another sniper.

Him.

He’s not dead. Not proper dead.

Which means I missed something. Or he ain’t the kind of thing bullets kill.

That’s fine.

I’ve got time. And I’ve got rounds.

Come on then, INV.

Peek that creepy head out again. Let’s have another go.

You don’t scare me.

Sylvester out.