Ninja Assassin

I approach the apartment building where the CCTV last captured the suspect.

It's a lower-end building—no security guards, just a locked entrance requiring a resident's key.

So, I wait nearby, casually leaning against a wall.

Less than five minutes later, a resident heads toward the door.

Perfect.

I pull out my phone, pretending to make a call.

As soon as he steps out, I flash him a small smile and catch the door with my hand, slipping inside before it closes.

I head toward the last unit in the hallway, near the elevator, and knock on the door.

An elderly woman answers.

"Yes?" she asks, peering up at me.

"Good evening, Ma'am," I greet her, flashing a fake DEA badge. "I'm Thomas Wang, DEA."

Her eyes narrow. "DEA?"

"Yes, Ma'am. We're tracking a fugitive involved in a drug case," I say, holding up a sketch of the suspect. "We have reason to believe he's been hiding in this building for months after escaping from prison."

The old woman's eyes widen. She gasps, covering her mouth.

"I've seen him a few times—always taking the right elevator," she whispers. "He seemed like such a nice man."

"Fugitives usually do," I reply calmly.

Her expression tightens. "The right elevator goes to odd-numbered floors. The left one is for even floors."

I nod, hiding my disappointment. That still leaves me 15 floors to check.

"Or…" she hesitates. "You could ask Mr. Wembley, the building manager. He lives next door."

I perk up. "That's very helpful, Ma'am. Thank you."

She nods solemnly. "Good luck, officer. I hope you don't get hurt."

She blesses me with a cross sign.

What a sweet woman.

I knock on Mr. Wembley's door.

He's a middle-aged man, suspicious at first, but after seeing my fake ID, he relaxes.

"Yeah, I recognize that face," he says, studying the sketch. "But that's not his name."

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"The name on his ID is Albert Dwight."

I fake a sigh. "That must be a fake ID. His real name is Travis Judge."

Mr. Wembley nods in understanding, then pulls out a logbook.

"He rents unit 1507," he says.

Bingo.

"Thanks," I say. "Let's keep this quiet. I don't want to alarm the residents."

He nods firmly. "Understood."

Within minutes, I'm in front of Unit 1507.

Gun in hand, I hesitate.

Knock or kick?

Screw it.

I kick the door—hard.

The lock bursts open, the door slamming back violently.

Inside, the suspect jerks in shock, turning to run.

"Don't move!" I bark, gun aimed at his head.

He freezes, hands raised.

On the coffee table, I spot bandages, medicine, surgical tools, and a bullet—Bob's bullet.

So he was wounded. No wonder he went to the pharmacy earlier.

"Who… who are you?" he asks, wincing in pain.

Albert Dwight, or whatever his real name is, wears a black long-sleeve shirt and jeans.

His eyebrows are blonde, but his hair is black. Dyed?

Or maybe fake identity work.

"I'm the one with the gun," I say coldly. "So I ask the questions."

He closes his mouth.

I step closer, still aiming at him.

"I only have one question: Who ordered you to kill Jennifer McCourtney?"

His lips curl into a smirk.

"Who says I did it because someone ordered me to?"

I snort. "Because we're the same. We only kill for money."

His eyes flicker—a second of recognition.

A footstep sounds behind me.

I drop my gun, grab his arm, and shove him onto the couch—

Then, I kiss him.

A woman's voice comes from the doorway.

"Are you okay, Alb—?"

She pauses, seeing us kissing.

Her face flushes red.

"Oh! S-sorry!" she stammers, stepping back. "I didn't mean to interrupt—just… go ahead."

She awkwardly pulls the door shut behind her.

Silence.

Then—

"Shit!" The suspect growls. "You just ruined my reputation!"

I raise an eyebrow. "Really? You still care about your reputation when you're about to die?"

"I like Gina!" he grumbles.

"Stand up."

I stand too, reaching for my gun—

It's gone.

His smirk widens as he raises my gun, now pointed at me.

"So, you're an assassin too."

I nod.

"Then you know I can't give you that name," he says. "Unless… you're willing to die for it."

"Fine. Tell me who ordered you." I exhale. "I can't die without knowing."

He laughs. "Nice try."

Then, he pulls the trigger.

I brace for impact.

At this range, I can't dodge.

This is it.

But—

The bullet moves in slow motion.

My eyes widen.

It floats toward me so slowly, I have time to shift my body—dodging it completely.

The assassin's face twists in shock.

Before he processes what happened, I snatch my gun back.

He stumbles backward, eyes wide.

"How…?" he whispers.

I smirk. "The name."

A phone rings on the table.

The distraction is small, but it's enough.

He grabs something from his pocket and throws it to the floor.

Smoke bursts out, clouding my vision.

I see his shadow move—

He's running.

I chase after him.

He glances back—and for the first time, I see fear in his eyes.

He throws something at me.

I dodge.

The sharp metal sticks into the wall inches from my ear.

A shuriken.

He's fast.

I quicken my pace.

He throws more—too many to dodge completely.

One cuts my arm. Another nearly slices my neck.

Ignoring the pain, I keep running.

He dives into the emergency exit.

I follow—

Then—silence.

I pause, scanning the area.

A single drop of blood sits on the floor.

A perfect circle.

Above.

I snap my gun upward, aiming at the ceiling.

"Come down. It's over."

Silence.

I fire a shot.

A red stain appears—then a body drops from above.

He groans in pain, clutching his fresh wound.

"I need the name," I growl.

He smiles weakly.

"He'll just hire another assassin," he whispers.

"That's why I need the name."

He chuckles softly.

"You're good," he mutters. "But love is always a man's downfall."

Then—

Blood pours from his mouth.

His body convulses.

"Shit!" I shove my fingers into his mouth.

He locks his jaw tight, choking on his own blood.

By the time I force his mouth open—

He's already dead.