Assassins in the Streets of Paris

Having abruptly ended their meeting with the Cold War Doctor, Amon and Sonia headed back to their lodging. As they made their way to the luxury hotel in Paris, Sonia whispered just loud enough for Amon to hear.

"What do you think of that doctor?"

"As a CEO?"

"Yeah."

Amon shook his head. "He's a good man, but not CEO material."

"I agree."

The doctor was undoubtedly a good person. To Sonia, he seemed like someone you could trust with something important. Amon had no disagreement there either—the man's integrity was impeccable, more than sufficient for entrusting him with responsibility. But that didn't mean he was right for the CEO position.

'It's not just about mindset.'

To keep a pharmaceutical company in check meant needing someone with proven competence first, trust second. The doctor had surely amassed vast knowledge and wisdom over a millennium of life. But that was knowledge as a scholar and wisdom as a human—nothing that necessarily translated to leading a company.

To put it harshly, seating him in the CEO chair could lead to misfortune in another sense. Worst case, it might pave a road to hell paved with good intentions.

And besides...

"The doctor said he's not interested anyway."

Amon had asked outright—or close enough—and the man had refused with a smile.

You couldn't force someone who didn't want it. Sonia nodded regretfully at Amon's words.

"Back to square one, then."

"Not entirely."

Amon pulled a business card from his pocket. "It wasn't a waste of time."

He pinched the card the doctor had given him between his index and middle fingers.

No matter how introverted the doctor was, a millennium of life would naturally forge connections. According to him, this forge had never once "fallen" over centuries of generational succession—not just spiritually, but technically as well. Of course, gaining power might change things, but—

"That won't happen. I guarantee it."

The doctor's millennium-long guarantee was trustworthy.

"Let's visit this man tomorrow."

With gains like this, the meeting hadn't been a waste. Amon tucked the card back into his pocket and resumed walking. The two strolled quietly through Paris's streets, crossing the Seine bridge and heading into an alley.

They drew pistols from their pockets.

"This should do it."

Pfft! The trigger pulled with a deflating balloon sound. Shadows on either side of them crumpled simultaneously.

Thud.

People disguised head to toe in black camo collapsed into pools of blood on the street, each with bullet holes in their necks and eyes.

"An eye shot mid-chaos? You're getting sharper."

"I've always fought with guns. You're the impressive one. When'd you find time to practice?"

"Learned over someone's shoulder."

Exchanging such idle banter, they drew their weapons. Amon: pistol in left, sword in right. Sonia: assault rifle.

Amon called out to the shadows. "Come out, or we'll come to you."

The shadows writhed in response. Soon, a group emerged, wrapped head to toe in black camo fabric.

Sonia eyed them and asked Amon, "Miller Pharma?"

"Doubt it. Just a hunch."

It didn't make rational sense, no matter how he thought about it. Amon's guess...

"Third faction, maybe."

"Out of nowhere?"

"Coincidences are rare in this world—that's what makes them coincidences. Most things have causes."

Amon reversed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his grip on the sword. "I dunno. Why not ask them?"

With that, Amon vanished.

"?!"

The attackers trembled faintly. Where to?

They scanned frantically. Then a chill from above drew their gazes skyward.

'Above?'

Recalling Amon's Sky Step, they aimed weapons upward. But what fell from the sky was a spinning sword hurtling toward them.

"Feint—"

Pfook!

A blade erupted from the thigh of what looked like a tank. The tank, grabbed from behind, swung a dagger backward, but Amon flipped over his head. In midair, he fired twice at the man's shoulder.

The bullets ricocheted harmlessly—as expected. In fact, that was the point. The deflected rounds veered toward the faces of other attackers.

The minions recoiled in horror, ducking hastily.

'Impossible!'

Such feats possible? It was their misconception, of course. Amon had only aimed for the ricochet; he hadn't calculated where the rest would go. The tank just happened to be in the group's center, so anywhere was fine. To a third party, though, Amon looked like a monster who'd planned even that.

His elusive footwork after the sword feint cemented the image. And that was exactly what Amon wanted. The more they misjudged him, the better it played to his assassin strengths. Information asymmetry and cowardice were his weapons.

Amon sliced below the knee of an attacker watching him warily.

"Gaaah!"

It severed clean like tofu. The man's gaze dropped with his scream. Terror gripped the group.

Sonia seized the momentary freeze.

Rat-tat-tat! Her burst fire shattered the rifles—and hands—of four snipers. The tide turned in an instant. What they'd thought were prey were predators.

Defeat loomed over the attackers. Yet they didn't flee, standing against Amon and Sonia. The pair subdued them ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠without killing—partly for faith, but mostly to extract info. The skill gap was vast; no real risk.

Soon, the group was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fully neutralized. Half-crippled was mild; most lacked lower bodies or both arms, but they still breathed.

Amon approached the sprawled bodies. "So, where are you from? Let's hear i—"

Before he finished, they bit down in unison. They vomited blood and died.

"Suicide?"

Expressions hidden by cloth, but they surely wore smug smiles. They were wrong about one thing, though.

"Pernikes."

Sonia murmured the word, and warm light seeped into them. Their pupils quivered as life returned to their bodies. Even those awaiting exsanguination gaped as bleeding stopped, hiding nothing of their shock. Some quickly bit their tongues again, but—

"Aigoo. You can't do that. No heaven for you then."

With a chilling remark, Amon gripped their jaws. Suicide denied.

Gazing down at the fallen, Amon smiled kindly. "Now, shall we try talking again?"

He straightened his clothes and pinned something to his chest. Propping up one attacker—a man without arms—against the wall, he asked.

"First question. Who sent you?"

"..."

"Please. Just tell us."

"..."

"Look, I'm a devout believer. No torture, no murder. Talk, and you're free."

He meant it. As a faithful man, Amon had no intent to harm them further.

'Who puts a cat down for hissing?'

Their attack was that level of threat. The gap between them and Amon, Sonia was abyssal. Life in prison, sure—but no torture or revenge killing.

"See this cross? I swear on it—no harm. Just talk."

Of course, this backfired. A man preaching faith after dismembering them? No normalcy there. Long-forgotten fear resurfaced. Plus, Amon overlooked one fact: 80% of the world's torture originated from religion.

Their mouths clamped tighter. Amon sighed in frustration and gave up cleanly.

Then, one attacker quietly asked, "If... if I talk, will you protect me too?"

Amon brightened, nodding. "Your life, at least, guaranteed."

The others glared at the traitor, but he ignored them and spoke. "Actually, we..."

"Don't!"

"You madman!"

Amon frowned at their reactions. Fear from suicide-fearless men? Something off.

Sparks erupted from their heads. With crackling, they convulsed, eyes rolling back. Scorched smell rose with smoke.

"Damn."

Crispy outside, raw inside—no, reverse here. Moist outside, charred within. No more response.

Riddles upon riddles.

'Poison and electricity?' Why two methods? Why electricity last if poison worked? Unexplained actions.

Amon tilted his head, gathering the bodies. Done, he spoke to the bodycam on his chest.

"Kashi. What'd you see?"

"No intel then?"

Over the speaker, Kashi caught her breath.