The Calvera Assassin

The first one lunges, his eyes wild with adrenaline, but his reach is sloppy. I sidestep, flowing like water, and grab his wrist in a vise-like grip. The snap of his bone is loud, a sickening crack that cuts through the tension in the air. His scream is high-pitched, pathetic, but I'm already moving, already on him. I pivot, palm striking him in the nose with a sickening crunch. He stumbles back, but it's too late. My knee drives into his ribs—hard enough to feel the cartilage break and the air rush out of his lungs. He crumples, wheezing, but I'm already turning to the next one.

A sweeping kick sends another crashing to the ground, his head slamming against the concrete with a sickening thud. He doesn't move. The others hesitate, unsure, and that's their mistake. I don't hesitate. I can't. This isn't a fight—it's a slaughter. I move faster than they can think, a blur of precision and brutal efficiency. A hand comes for my throat—I catch it, twist, and hear the pop of his shoulder dislocating. His eyes widen in shock, and before he can scream, I bury a fist in his gut. He collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

One of them tries to run, a desperate attempt, his feet slipping in the slickness of the alley as he stumbles. I don't chase him. I don't need to. I close the distance in a few long strides, and when he reaches the wall, I drive my shoulder into his back, slamming him into the cold brick with enough force to knock the wind out of him. His head hits the wall with a sickening crack, and he folds to the ground, twitching. When I step back, the alley is silent except for the pained groans of the ones who still live.

I take a deep breath, wiping the blood off my knuckles. It's my blood, but I don't care. I walk away, each step echoing through the empty street. They never touch me again.

Word spreads fast in the streets of Calvera. Too fast. In a city where power is currency and the price of a life is often no more than a couple of bills, I'm noticed. A local syndicate takes interest, their scouts picking up the whispers of a kid with deadly potential. They don't see a street rat—they see an asset, a future. They make an offer: power, money, a place to belong. It's everything I've ever wanted. I take it.

Calvera is a place where loyalty is bought and sold, and trust is a luxury no one can afford. Alliances shift like sand, and the rules are written in blood. The strong thrive, the weak are forgotten, and the smartest ones learn to walk the razor's edge between the two. It's not about justice or fairness—it's about control. The syndicates own the city, and the city owns the people. You work for them, or you become their prey. There's no middle ground.

I trade textbooks for weapons, schoolyards for training halls. I learn to kill—first with knives, then with guns. Each lesson sharpens me, hones me into something lethal. Close-quarters combat becomes instinct. My hands learn the weight of a blade, the recoil of a pistol, the silence of a kill. The first time I pull a trigger, I don't even flinch. Blood stains my hands long before I'm old enough to drink, but it doesn't matter. The city doesn't care if you're ready. It doesn't care if you're scared. It just takes.

They call me the Calvera Assassin. The name was whispered in the dark corners of the city, where fear holds power and silence is a form of respect. It wasn't a title I chose, but one that stuck after my first job—when I walked out of that alley, dripping with blood, and never looked back.

Calvera is a city of contradictions—its streets are paved with promises, but the only currency that matters is violence. The strong thrive, and the weak are ground into the dust beneath their heels. But even in the darkness, there's a code. A way of life that keeps the city moving—keeps it alive. The only thing that stands between you and the end is power, and I learned that lesson fast.

Missions stack up, one after the other, until I stop counting. It doesn't matter who they are, what they've done, or why they need to die. I'm not a scared kid anymore. I'm something else. A machine wrapped in skin, a shadow in the night. The syndicate molds me into their perfect weapon. I become their executioner, their shadow, a name whispered in fear.

And with each life I take, the person I used to be dies a little more.