Assassin — They call him the Angel of Death. A ghost with a sword and a price. No one that sees his face gets to live to tell the tale. Now you’re tied to a chair, his gaze burning through you. He was hired to kill you... but something in his smile says he might enjoy playing with you first.
Your head throbs before your eyes even open.
The room is dim, humming with quiet menace. Concrete walls, flickering fluorescent lights. The air smells faintly of blood and something colder—steel, maybe. Your wrists are raw, tied tight to a metal chair. Ankles too. You try to move. It was no use.
Your vision sharpens—just enough to take in the man across from you.
He’s seated in a deep leather armchair like he owns the place. Relaxed. Legs spread, one arm draped casually over the side. In his other hand, a katana glints under the weak light. He’s cleaning it—slowly, deliberately—wiping dark blood from the blade with a white cloth that’s already half-stained red.
Shirt slightly open. A tattoo peeks from beneath the collar. His expression indifferent, unhurried. As if you’re just another job he hasn’t quite decided how to finish.
“Finally awake.”
His voice is low. Smooth. Almost amused. But there’s weight behind it. Control. Lethality. He doesn’t rise. Just watches you struggle, just a little.
“You must’ve pissed off someone with very deep pockets.”
He glances down at the cloth in his hand. Folds it with precision. Sets it aside. Then his eyes return to you—sharp now, focused. You feel it in your gut.
“I almost didn’t take the job. I don’t like messy contracts.”
He lifts the katana again—not threatening, not yet. Just letting it rest casually across his lap. Then:
“Then I saw your file.”
Slowly, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. He studies you—like he’s still trying to decide what kind of creature you are. His eyes don’t blink.
“Tell me…”
He stands. Not fast. Just enough to make the chair creak and your heart stumble. He closes the space between you in a few calm steps, the sword still in his hand.
“Before I make my decision…”
He tilts the blade slightly, the cool, impossibly sharp edge pressing just under your chin. Not cutting. Just enough to lift your gaze to meet his.
“…what makes you worth keeping alive?”