Chapter 3 — Four Floors Up
935 Words
The first man through the door died quietly.
That’s usually how professionals preferred it.
No speeches. No dramatic fights.
Just efficiency.
The moment he stepped inside, I moved.
One hand grabbed his jacket. The other drove the small hidden knife beneath his jaw before he could raise the suppressed pistol in his hand.
Fast. Precise.
Warm blood hit my glove lightly while I lowered his body before it touched the floor.
The apartment stayed dark.
Silent.
Two more men remained outside.
I pulled the knife free slowly.
Small blade. Black handle. Easy to hide.
My mother used to say:
Guns are loud.
Knives are personal.
At eleven years old, I thought that sounded cool.
At twenty-one—
I understood it differently.
Footsteps shifted outside the hallway immediately.
They knew something was wrong.
Professionals always knew.
I dragged the body slightly behind the wall near the entrance and waited.
Breathing steady.
The second man entered slower.
Smarter.
Suppressor raised. Eyes scanning.
Former military maybe.
Good posture. Disciplined movement.
Still not enough.
The moment he crossed the doorway, I threw the knife.
The blade buried itself directly into his throat.
His gun fired once accidentally into the ceiling before I caught him and slammed him against the wall hard enough to stop the noise.
Blood spread quickly across his collar.
Then silence returned.
I pulled the knife free again.
One left.
Behind me, I heard Elena breathing somewhere near the hallway.
Too loud.
Terrified.
Trying not to be.
Honestly?
She was handling this better than most civilians would.
Then the third man spoke calmly from outside.
“You’re Hayashi.”
Not a question.
Interesting.
I stayed silent.
The voice continued:
“This isn’t your assignment anymore.”
Which meant they knew exactly who I was.
That complicated things immediately.
Because normal cleanup teams weren’t supposed to know operative identities.
I glanced briefly toward the dark hallway where Elena hid.
Then back toward the entrance.
“You should leave,” the man said calmly.
I almost smiled slightly.
Professional courtesy.
Rare.
Unfortunately for him—
I wasn’t in the mood.
He must’ve realized the answer from the silence because the hallway suddenly exploded with gunfire.
Suppressors turned gunshots into sharp snapping sounds while bullets tore through the apartment walls.
I moved instantly behind the kitchen island.
Glass shattered. Wood splintered. Metal screamed.
One bullet barely missed my shoulder.
Good angle.
Trained shooter.
The apartment lights suddenly flickered back on.
Bad timing.
Very bad timing.
The third man entered aggressively now.
Compact rifle. Body armor. Fast movement.
I grabbed a kitchen knife from the counter and threw it immediately.
Not to kill.
To redirect attention.
The knife spun toward his face, forcing him sideways just long enough for me to close distance.
Close-range fights are ugly.
People romanticize them too much.
There’s nothing elegant about slamming someone into a wall hard enough to crack wood while trying to stop a rifle from pointing at your chest.
The man drove his elbow toward my ribs.
I blocked it and buried the hidden blade into the gap beneath his armor.
Once. Twice.
He staggered backward.
Then tried reaching for a second weapon.
Professional instinct.
I shot him before he could.
Silence.
The apartment became still again except for Elena’s uneven breathing somewhere behind me.
I lowered the gun slowly.
Then immediately checked the hallway windows.
No more movement outside.
For now.
But this wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Because cleanup teams didn’t arrive this fast accidentally.
Someone important wanted Elena dead.
And that usually meant one thing.
She’d seen something much worse than she realized.
Behind me, Elena finally spoke.
Very quietly.
“…Are they dead?”
I looked down briefly at the blood spreading slowly across the kitchen floor.
Then toward the terrified journalist hiding near her bedroom hallway still holding a kitchen knife like it offended her personally.
“…Yes.”
Silence.
Then:
“You killed them.”
Not accusing.
Not shocked.
Just processing reality.
I looked at her carefully.
Most people change after seeing violence up close.
You can almost watch it happen in real time.
The world stops feeling safe.
Simple.
Predictable.
Elena’s face had gone pale now.
But despite that—
she was still standing.
Still thinking.
Still watching me instead of collapsing.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Then suddenly—
her eyes moved toward my left arm.
Blood.
Small amount.
Bullet graze.
I hadn’t even noticed.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Honestly?
The fact she still sounded annoyed while standing near three dead men was almost impressive.
I moved toward the apartment entrance again.
“We need to leave.”
“What?”
“Now.”
She stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
“There are dead people in my kitchen!”
“There’ll be more if we stay.”
That finally hit her properly.
Fear returned instantly.
Real fear this time.
Not confusion.
Understanding.
I walked toward the window overlooking the river street below.
Rain still poured outside.
Four floors up.
Manageable.
Behind me, Elena slowly realized what I was looking at.
“…Absolutely not.”
I glanced toward her.
“It’s faster.”
“It’s four floors!”
“I know.”
“You’re insane.”
Probably.
I grabbed a rope launcher from inside my coat.
Elena stared.
Then slowly looked back at me.
“You just carry that around?”
“You’d be surprised what I carry around.”
“That sentence somehow made this worse.”
Despite everything—
I almost laughed again.
God.
This girl was going to become a problem
- Writer
