Chapter 8 – The Cleaner

Avery narrowed his eyes.

'The man ahead.'

He followed, keeping his gaze sharp, tracking the man's every movement.

'He's not an ordinary person.'

Avery knew it instantly.

His instincts as an assassin whispered to him.

This man wasn't just another criminal.

His footsteps were nearly silent.

Even the faint crunch of gravel beneath his feet was swallowed by the night.

His movements were fluid—

always in a stance that could shift into an attack at any moment.

Avery maintained his distance, shadowing him in perfect silence.

If he rushed in now, he would be noticed immediately.

He waited.

For the perfect opportunity.

The noise of the crowd from Third Street grew fainter and fainter.

And soon, the city sank back into the stillness of night.

At that moment—

Avery sensed it.

'He knows.'

The man was aware he was being followed.

And—

he was leading him deeper into the shadows on purpose.

"Fine."

Avery murmured under his breath.

Retreating was never an option.

His target was right there.

If he let this chance slip away, he might never get another.

The streets darkened.

The man's silhouette blurred,

merging seamlessly with the night.

Sssk—

"…!"

Avery's eyes flickered for a fraction of a second.

'This guy—he's good.'

He was trying to vanish from sight—

in an instant.

However.

Avery possessed sharper instincts.

The flow of air.

The faintest shift in the atmosphere.

That alone was enough for him to track his target's position.

The man was still nearby.

He wasn't gone—

just erasing his presence.

Avery melted into the darkness, his form vanishing seamlessly, as if he had become one with the shadows.

But his eyes—

his gaze never wavered.

The man.

He suddenly stopped.

Slowly, he glanced around.

"Come out."

His voice was calm, steady, without the slightest trace of unease.

Then, he reached for his glasses.

Taking them off, he began wiping the lenses with a handkerchief—

as if this entire chase was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

"I don't have time for childish games."

But Avery did not move.

Not even the sound of his breath escaped.

He remained still,

watching, waiting—

patiently lurking in the shadows.

There was no reason for him to reveal himself first.

"Suit yourself."

The man slid his glasses back on, then, without hesitation, resumed walking—

composed, unbothered.

And—

Avery followed.

Silently.

Never losing sight of him.

Watching to see where this path would lead.

Eventually, the man disappeared into a decrepit building.

Even among the rundown structures of Third Street,

this one stood out—

practically a ruin.

It looked as though it had been on the verge of collapse for years.

The traces of decades of neglect were evident in its crumbling walls.

Calling it a 'building' felt almost generous.

Avery came to a halt, considering his options.

Should he go in immediately?

Or—

wait?

Storming in right now wasn't the worst idea.

However, that wasn't his style.

An assassin's principle:

"Wait until the perfect moment."

So, he chose a different approach.

He moved toward the adjacent rooftop, scaling the wall with practiced ease, his movements fluid—like a shadow.

Then, as he reached the rooftop, his gaze locked onto the roof of the abandoned warehouse.

But.

Sight wasn't what he needed right now.

Avery immediately shut down all unnecessary senses—

and focused on only one.

'Hearing.'

A technique from his days as an assassin.

Now was the time to put it to use.

At first, only faint voices reached him.

Eight people.

Maybe more.

And within them—

another sound.

Huff… Huff…

Ragged, broken breathing.

Someone inside was dying.

Avery's mind raced.

'Should I wait calmly?'

Should he stick to his usual approach, gathering intel while waiting for the perfect moment?

Or—

should he rush in now to save a life?

'And if that exposes me?'

His fist clenched tightly.

This was no small decision.

But.

His hesitation didn't last long.

Avery slipped into motion, gliding through the darkness.

He spotted a crack in the building's wall, and without a sound, he pressed his body through the narrow opening.

Sssk—

Perfect silence.

His footsteps were nothing more than a whisper.

Inside, an empty room.

The air was thick with dust and the stench of decay.

But that wasn't his focus.

The sound.

'Huff… Huff…'

The breathing grew clearer.

It was—

leading him.

Avery crept forward, moving down the building's hallway.

Every sense sharpened to its limit.

Creak—

Each time the old wooden floor let out the faintest groan,

Avery immediately halted his steps, holding his breath.

Low voices murmured from a distance.

As he crept closer, the situation became clearer.

And then.

Finally.

He reached a vantage point where he could look down into the room.

Inside—

was the man he had been following.

A man seated on an old wooden chair, like a king of darkness.

His glasses gleamed under the dim lighting.

A pristine black suit, neatly pressed.

A stark contrast to Billy Johnson, bloodied and battered.

Billy—

the homeless man of Third Street.

His body was wrecked, yet he clung desperately to the cigarette pack in his hand.

Then.

One of the men standing beside him let out a scoff and snatched it away.

"Let go, you piece of trash."

"Or I'll cut off your damn wrist."

But Billy did not let go.

His body looked broken, but his grip was iron.

"Hah! Unbelievable."

The thug laughed mockingly.

"Holding onto this like it's some kind of treasure?"

However.

Through it all—

the man in the black suit showed no reaction.

He simply watched,

as if—

As if he were waiting for 'something.'

The thug's patience wore thin.

He pulled out a short knife.

Sssk—

The sharp metal glinted under the light.

Avery's body tensed instinctively.

Any second now—

The knife would come down.

He moved.

"Stop!"

A powerful voice filled the room.

In that instant, every gaze snapped toward him.

A suffocating silence settled over the space.

Using that brief moment,

Avery stepped forward.

His presence immediately took control of the room.

No one moved.

Then, the man in the black suit, seated in his chair—

slowly curled his lips upward.

A chilling smile.

As if he had been waiting for this exact moment.

"So it was you, Enigma."

His voice was low and cold.

"Why did you follow me?"

There was a faint, twisted amusement in his tone.

"Afraid I'd take your target first?"

"Or—"

"Did you suddenly grow a conscience and decide to abandon your 'mission'?"

He slowly rose from his chair.

And, like a predator locking onto its prey, he fixed his piercing gaze on Avery.

A tense silence hung between them.

"You already know, Enigma."

The man spoke again.

His voice was smooth, laced with mockery, yet beneath it, a blatant threat lingered.

"The organization has no use for those who fail to complete their missions. They just become… a nuisance."

His words grew sharper.

"Uncontrollable ones are dangerous. Especially those who have sentimental 'outbursts.' What the organization wants is 'order' and 'precision.'You understand that much, don't you?"

Click.

He slowly pressed the button on the camera mounted on a tripod.

Recording started.

"Finish the job."

His tone was indifferent.

"This is the only 'mercy' I can offer you. You missed your deadline yesterday, didn't you? But— I've decided to give you one last chance."

At that moment,

Avery's gaze wavered slightly.

However, his voice remained calm.

"…What?"

"Don't play dumb."

The man in the black suit smirked with cold amusement.

"You already know. What happens to an 'artist' who fails to complete their 'masterpiece' on time."

He gestured toward Billy Johnson.

A man battered beyond recognition.

Clutching onto a crumpled cigarette pack.

The last warmth he could hold on to.

"I even prepared the 'canvas' for you. All you have to do is pick up the brush. Not that hard, is it?"

Avery clenched his fist tightly.

"Are you one of the Cleaners too?"

At that moment,

The man in the black suit raised his eyebrows,

Feigning exaggerated surprise.

"Hmm~?"

He slowly scanned Avery from head to toe, as if he had discovered something truly fascinating.

"Don't tell me… you actually don't remember? This isn't some cheap soap opera, Enigma. You know that, right?"

His expression darkened.

If he was the Cleaner assigned to this area, he would obviously know about the 'artists' here.

Their activities.

Their locations.

How their 'masterpieces' were created.

He already knew everything.

According to the records—

Avery had attempted to access the system multiple times.

Eventually, he failed the password input, and his account was locked.

And,

He hadn't completed his 'masterpiece' before the deadline.

"Only in fragments. Pieces here and there."

Avery gave a short reply.

At that moment,

The man let out a chilling laugh.

His smile was like a cold, sharp blade, brushing against Avery's spine.

"How amusing."

He sneered.

"Is that last kill still haunting you? Did it shake you so badly… that you lost your memory?"

He leaned back comfortably in his chair.

And,

Wore an expression soaked in twisted satisfaction.

"But you see, Enigma. Enough with the useless chatter. Hurry up and finish it. Whether you remember or not, a contract is a contract. Killing this piece of trash is part of the deal."

Billy Johnson.

Avery's gaze shifted to the man drenched in blood.

He lay sprawled on the floor, collapsed in a pool of his own blood.

His entire body was covered in bruises and wounds.

Yet, even in that wretched state, he never let go of the cigarette pack in his hand.

As if it were his last treasure.

Avery silently took a step forward.

Then, he picked up the short knife one of the men had dropped.

Slowly, he stood over Billy.

Looking down at him.

Information is power.

If he killed Billy, he could gain the Cleaner's trust.

And, with that trust, he would have a chance to uncover more secrets.

'This is the most efficient method.'

That was his conclusion.

At that moment.

Billy's eyes fluttered open slightly.

Bloodshot pupils.

And, he forced a faint smile.

'It's okay.'

That smile seemed to say.

'I know… that you have no choice.'