THE SILENT ASSASSIN

Chapter 7

The Silent Assassin

The night air was thick with humidity, and the streets gleamed wet under the dim glow of the streetlights. The storm had subsided, leaving behind a haze that obscured everything just beyond arm's reach. The kind of night where danger could lurk in every shadow, and every step felt like it could be your last. The man moved swiftly, his boots silent against the wet pavement, his breath measured but sharp. He was used to being hunted, but this time, something felt different. He could feel it in his bones.

He had been on the run for what felt like days, never staying in one place too long, always looking over his shoulder. He didn't know who was after him, but he knew one thing for certain: they were good. Too good. And they were getting closer.

A sound broke the silence. A rustling in the distance. His instincts kicked in, and he froze, his hand instinctively reaching for the concealed weapon at his side. The street was empty, but he knew better than to trust the calm before the storm.

He was being watched.

Without warning, a figure emerged from the fog, moving so quickly that the man had barely registered their presence before they were upon him. It was a blur of motion, and then he felt the sharp sting of something cold and lethal against his side. His breath caught in his throat as he twisted away just in time, narrowly avoiding a fatal strike. The assailant was fast, unnaturally so.

The man didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, using his body weight to knock the figure off balance. He needed space, time to think, but the attacker was relentless. Every move they made was calculated, precise, as if they were a mirror image of him—a reflection of his every move.

They fought in silence, the only sounds the rhythm of their bodies colliding, the scrape of leather on asphalt, and the occasional grunt of exertion. The man could feel the strain in his muscles, the weight of each blow landing harder than the last. He couldn't remember the last time he had fought this intensely, or the last time he had been so outmatched.

The attacker's movements were flawless. Every strike they made was as if they had been programmed to anticipate his responses. He was no rookie, no novice, but this assassin was something else. Their speed, precision, and coldness sent a shiver down his spine.

He barely dodged a slash that would have torn into his throat. His mind raced, scrambling for answers. Who was this? What did they want with him?

The fight dragged on, and he began to realize something—something unsettling. The attacker was mimicking his every move. It was as if they knew exactly what he was going to do before he did it. His heart pounded in his chest as the pieces fell into place. This wasn't just any assassin. This was someone like him.

His thoughts raced back to the fragmented memories of his training—the hours of drills, the missions, the coldness of the agency's control. The feeling that he had been shaped for something, but his memory of it was fractured, incomplete. But in that moment, he understood. Whoever had sent this assassin knew everything about him. They knew how he fought, how he thought. They knew his weaknesses.

The assassin lunged again, and this time, the man didn't have the energy to dodge. The blade cut across his side, drawing blood, and he gasped, the pain searing through him. But even as the pain intensified, his reflexes kicked in. He slammed his fist into the assassin's face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his knuckles.

The assassin staggered, momentarily disoriented, and the man seized the opportunity. He drove his elbow into the attacker's chest, knocking the wind out of them. But the assassin recovered quickly, eyes narrowing with cold determination.

"Why are you doing this?" the man rasped, his voice strained. The blood loss was starting to take its toll. He was running on fumes, but he couldn't stop now. He needed answers. "Who sent you?"

The assassin didn't answer. Their eyes were cold, their face a mask of indifference. They weren't here to talk. They were here to end him.

Another brutal strike landed, this time against his ribs, and the man grunted in pain. He stumbled back, struggling to stay on his feet. His thoughts were a blur, and for a moment, he wondered if this was it. Would this be the end?

But the fight wasn't over yet. Not while there was still breath in his lungs.

The assassin moved in again, their blade flashing under the streetlights, a deadly arc aimed straight at his throat. The man barely managed to bring up his arm in time, deflecting the blade just enough to avoid the fatal strike. The force of the blow sent him sprawling to the ground, his vision blurring at the edges as the world spun around him.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, the pounding of it a constant reminder of his vulnerability. He was losing the fight, and he knew it. But there was still one card left to play.

The assassin was closing in for the final blow, their knife poised to strike. In that moment, something inside the man snapped. With a burst of energy he didn't know he had left, he surged forward, using the last of his strength to kick the assassin's legs out from under them.

The assassin hit the ground with a sickening thud, and the man didn't hesitate. He scrambled to his feet, pushing through the pain, and threw himself on top of the assassin. He brought his fists down again and again, each blow fueled by the desperation to survive.

The assassin fought back, but their movements were slowing, their resistance weakening. The man's hands were slick with blood, and his vision was swimming, but he refused to stop. He had to end this.

Finally, with one last brutal strike, he landed a blow that sent the assassin's head snapping back. The figure went limp beneath him, their breath coming in short gasps. The man staggered back, panting, his body trembling from the exertion.

For a long moment, there was silence. He could feel the adrenaline beginning to ebb, leaving him with a crushing exhaustion. His chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, but something in the stillness was off. He looked down at the assassin's body, his pulse hammering in his throat.

The assassin's eyes flickered open, their gaze locking onto his. In the briefest of moments, something like recognition passed between them. The words came in a low whisper, their voice barely audible. "You were never supposed to wake up."

The man froze. The words sank into him like a cold weight, the implications of them gnawing at him, leaving him with more questions than answers. Who was this assassin? How did they know him? What did they mean?

The assassin's hand twitched, and then, with a final breath, they went still.

The man stood over the body, his thoughts swirling in confusion. The rain had stopped, but the fog still clung to the streets, and the night felt colder than ever.

You were never supposed to wake up.

The words echoed in his mind as he staggered away, the fight far from over.