A world so cruel

The city thrummed under a bruised sky, a gate’s blue rift pulsing faintly in the distance. I adjusted the holster beneath my jacket, the weight of my gun grounding me as I strode toward the target’s apartment. My phone buzzed—guild payment confirmed, two targets, one job. Clean, or so I thought. Ten years ago, the gates tore open, spilling monsters and awakening skills in humans. Hunters were born to fight them, but one took my mother in a blood-soaked dungeon. Now, I hunt them. I am a  S-rank assassin, called Stinger. No questions, just results.

The apartment door hung ajar, a splintered frame catching the dim streetlight. My gut twisted—sloppy work for a hunter’s hideout. I slipped inside, boots silent on the hardwood. The air reeked of copper. A woman, mid-twenties, lay crumpled on the floor, her dark hair matted with blood. Seven stab wounds riddled her back, each precise, brutal. Someone beat me to it. Then, a whimper, soft but sharp, cut through the silence.

I dropped to one knee, peering under the bed. A girl, maybe seven, stared back, her eyes wide with terror, clutching a tattered blanket. “A job’s a job,” I muttered, drawing my gun. Her gaze locked with mine, unyielding, like she saw through the killer to the man. My finger brushed the trigger. My hand trembled. I saw my mother’s face, her lifeless eyes staring up at me. The gun clattered to the floor. I sank to my knees, tears burning. “I can’t,” I whispered. “Not you. Not a kid.”

I holstered the weapon, my hands still shaking. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I said softly. She flinched but didn’t run. Slowly, she extended a trembling pinky finger. “Promise?” Her voice was barely audible, raw with fear. My chest ached. I hooked my pinky around hers, the gesture awkward but heavy. “Promise,” I said, meaning it. She hesitated, then crawled out, clinging to my jacket as I stood.

We left the apartment, her small hand gripping mine. My Gold brand car waited outside, its sleek frame a hard-earned prize from years of blood money. I kept it under twenty miles an hour—she tensed at every turn, her fear palpable. “It’s okay,” I murmured, glancing at her. “You’re safe now.” She didn’t reply, just stared out the window, eyes distant.

At the city’s edge, I flashed my ID at a gated compound. The barrier slid open, revealing my mansion—my one indulgence, shielded by guild-issued wards. The girl’s eyes widened, reflecting the sprawling estate’s lights. “Big,” she whispered, her first word since the promise. I almost smiled. “Yeah. Big.”

Inside, Irene, my housekeeper and the only person who’d dare scold an assassin, froze at the sight of the girl. “She needs a bath,” I said, scratching my neck. Irene’s hand shot out, smacking my head. “Tactless idiot,” she hissed, her eyes soft on the girl. “You’ll scare her senseless.” The girl’s lip quivered, and I cursed myself. Kneeling, I ruffled her hair gently. “Sorry, kid. I’m new at this.”

Irene softened, guiding the girl toward the stairs. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned up.” The girl paused, glancing back at me. “Mister… what’s ice cream?” My heart cracked. “You poor thing,” I said, voice thick. “We’ll fix that.”

As Irene led her away, my phone buzzed—a guild message demanding an update. I stepped onto the balcony, the night air sharp. Whoever ordered that girl’s death was going to pay. But first, I had to keep my promise. I gave her some ice cream and then let Irene take her.

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