The Last Human Thing

People imagine assassins as cold people. Emotionless. Silent. Broken. Honestly? Most of them just had terrible childhoods and expensive suits. Rain slid down the windows of the black Audi while Prague moved quietly outside. Streetlights reflected against wet roads. Old buildings. Late-night bars. Tourists making bad decisions. Rex Donovan drove with one hand on the wheel and absolutely no concern for traffic laws. Normal behavior for him. “You’re quiet,” he said. “I’m sitting in a car.” “Yeah, but in a dramatic way.” I ignored him. Rex grinned slightly. He enjoyed talking during jobs. I enjoyed silence. That’s probably why we worked well together. The dashboard screen displayed the target file between us. Elena Moreau. Twenty-six. Investigative journalist. Currently making several dangerous people nervous. That usually ended badly. “She dug too deep into transport records,” Rex said casually. “Found connections she wasn’t supposed to.” “What kind of connections?” “Flour shipments.” I looked at him. “Flour?” “Exactly.” Rex laughed softly. “That’s how you know it’s serious. Nobody suspects flour companies.” Fair point. The organization moving the shipments didn’t officially exist. That was how the real world worked. No dramatic secret society names. No evil logos. Just businessmen. Politicians. Shipping companies. Banks. People in expensive offices quietly deciding who disappeared. And Elena Moreau had accidentally looked behind the curtain. Rex tapped the screen. “She followed warehouse routes across Germany and Prague. Three people connected to the operation are already dead.” “Journalists usually know when to stop.” “She doesn’t.” That answer stayed in the car for a second. Then Rex added: “Apparently she thinks exposing corruption changes things.” I looked back out the window. “She’s not completely wrong.” Rex glanced at me briefly. “Careful. That almost sounded human.” I almost smiled. Almost. The car slowed near the river district. Apartment buildings overlooked the water while rain continued tapping softly against the glass. Rex parked near the curb and killed the engine. Then he looked toward me. “No unnecessary complications tonight.” “You say that every mission.” “And yet somehow you keep creating them.” Fair. I reached for the door. Then Rex added casually: “Oh, and Damian?” I looked back. “She’s attractive.” I stared at him. “How is that relevant?” “You’re asking that like I haven’t known you for seven years.” I got out before he could continue. Cold air hit immediately. Rain soaked lightly into my coat while I crossed the street toward the apartment building. People walked past me without noticing. That was something training teaches early. How to exist quietly. Not invisible. Just forgettable. The building entrance was unlocked. Bad security. Fourth floor. Apartment 407. There was one guard outside the hallway. Cheap handgun. Relaxed posture. Watching sports on his phone. Not professional. He noticed movement too late. Three seconds. That’s all it took. I caught him before he hit the floor loudly and lowered him carefully against the wall. Alive. I wasn’t being merciful. Dead bodies create attention. Sleeping guards create confusion. Big difference. I turned toward the apartment door. Unlocked. That immediately felt strange. Journalists investigating criminal networks usually became paranoid fast. Unless— She still didn’t understand how dangerous this had become. I entered quietly. Dark apartment. Soft jazz music somewhere inside. Kitchen light on. Then I heard her talking. “…Why are there so many knife types?” I stopped near the hallway entrance. Elena Moreau stood alone in the kitchen staring at several kitchen knives spread across the counter like they’d personally betrayed her. Dark hair tied loosely back. Oversized sweater. Completely unaware an assassin stood ten feet away. She picked up another knife carefully. “This one looks unnecessary.” Before logic could stop me— “That’s a carving knife.” Silence. She froze instantly. Then slowly turned toward me. And immediately grabbed the nearest knife badly. Wrong grip. Terrible stance. Still better than most people. Her eyes narrowed. “You broke into my apartment.” “You left the door unlocked.” “That doesn’t explain why you’re inside it.” Fair argument. Rain echoed softly outside while both of us stayed still. Most people panic in situations like this. Elena looked irritated instead. Interesting. “You’re very calm,” she said carefully. “So are you.” “I’m holding a knife.” “Incorrectly.” She looked down briefly. Then adjusted her grip slightly. Better. I blinked once. “…Who taught you that?” “My grandfather hunted.” That explained it. She kept staring at me now. Carefully. Curious. That was worse than fear. Fear is predictable. Curious people ask questions. And questions create problems. “You’re not here to rob me,” she said suddenly. I tilted my head slightly. “And why’s that?” “Because robbers usually don’t critique kitchen equipment first.” Honestly? That almost made me laugh. Which was deeply inconvenient. Because I was supposed to kill her. And somehow— after less than two minutes— she already felt more alive than most people I’d met in years. Then she asked quietly: “So who exactly are you?” Before I could answer— My phone vibrated once inside my coat. Rex. I ignored it. Then it vibrated again immediately. Which meant something changed. I answered without taking my eyes off Elena. “What?” Rex’s voice came through low and serious now. “Damian.” That tone instantly sharpened my attention. “What happened?” Silence. Then: “You need to leave.” My expression changed slightly. Elena noticed immediately. “Why?” Rex exhaled once. “There’s another team heading toward the apartment.”