The Monday sun blazed more intensely than usual, despite the fact that it was slowly setting behind the towering skyscrapers. Luckily for Specter, none of that burning light could reach his bedroom, a luxurious fortress nestled high in one of New Lyon’s most exclusive neighborhoods.
Two top-of-the-line Dyson HyperCool X3 air conditioners hummed quietly on either side of the room, their chill breeze joining forces with the three Haiku Luxe ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead, making sure the scorching heat outside felt like a distant problem.
In the far corner, a king-sized bed was draped in crumpled Egyptian cotton sheets, their once-pristine whiteness wrinkled and tangled from restless sleep. Specter lay there, motionless, his sun-kissed, tan-skinned lean and muscular body curled under the covers as he tried to find the motivation to move.
Beside the bed, a state-of-the-art Bang & Olufsen Beolab 50 sound system—unused for two months now—collected dust near a wall covered with original works of art that most would kill to own. The wardrobe, half-opened and spilling over with designer suits and expensive clothing, resembled more of a bargain bin than the closet of a man who could afford anything. Piles of takeout containers were scattered on the floor next to a pair of polished black dress shoes, their laces still tied from their last wear.
On the far side of the room, an enormous floor-to-ceiling window offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, though the thick blackout curtains were drawn shut, letting in only the faintest sliver of light. It cast a thin line across the room, glinting off the half-empty glass tumbler of whiskey sitting precariously on the edge of a mahogany Fendi Casa nightstand, next to a flickering digital clock that read 4:03 PM.
Books, gun magazines, shirts and pants lay scattered across a polished Eames Lounge Chair and ottoman. The chair probably cost more than most people made in a month, yet here it was, reduced to a glorified laundry basket.
In the middle of this mess, Specter groggily woke up.
His eyes, dark and sunken, blinked against the faint light. He sat up, his feet touching the cold floor, but he didn’t stand. Instead, he remained on the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead.
His gaze drifted toward the nightstand, where a collection of medications sat waiting for him, their labels screaming silent reminders of what he was: a man trapped in his own mind. There were bottles of Zoloft, Lithium, Xanax, Diazepam, and Oxycodone. Beside them were the darker bottles—harder drugs he had gotten through less conventional means: Adderall, OxyContin. Things to numb the noise when everything got too loud.
Specter, named for the very thing he had become in the world of hired killers, was infamous for his ability to bypass any form of security. Alarms, guards, retinal scans, pressure plates, sensors—it didn’t matter. No system was too tight, no protection too strong. He always found a way in, and he always killed his targets. But now, his mind felt hazy, his thoughts sluggish, almost like they were fighting against quicksand.
It wasn’t mere exhaustion; it was one of those days— days when Specter’s muscles felt weighted, like lead anchors dragging him deeper into the mattress. When every breath seemed a little too much effort, and even blinking felt like a task he wasn’t sure was worth completing. One of the many that had been happening more frequently these days.
And this? This was deeper than the rest.
Everything around him seemed… wrong. Messy. Disconnected. He thought about cleaning it up, maybe putting away the clothes or at least tossing out the old takeout containers but the thought of getting out of bed was exhausting enough to make him sink deeper into the mattress.
He chuckled bitterly, the sound flat and humorless. "Reckon the cleaning crew won’t throw me out with the trash, eh?" he muttered dryly to the empty room. His dry wit kept the wolves of his mind at bay, at least for a while.
He reached for the whiskey on the nightstand and took a sip. The liquid was warm now, bitter on his tongue, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t drinking for pleasure. He wasn’t drinking for anything, really. Just… doing.
His mind flashed to his last job. An executive, high profile, terrified when Specter had appeared in the shadows of his luxurious office. The victim had barely had time to react before Specter had pressed the silencer to his head and pulled the trigger. Twice. The kill had been clean, smooth, like all the others. The money had been transferred immediately, like clockwork. Yet, the kill hadn’t brought him joy. It hadn’t brought him anything except the same hollow feeling, the same ghosts whispering in his ear.
"Maybe I should start a support group." The thought floated up before he could swat it away. "Kia ora, name’s Specter, I off people for cash." He paused, the silence swallowing the rest of the sentence. What was left to say? What more was there when you barely felt alive?
He tried to laugh at his own joke, but it fizzled out, just like everything else. His mind wandered to his childhood, the memories blurry, as if viewed through dirty glass. He closed his eyes, trying not to remember them but they came anyway.
Freak! Dickhead!
He could hear the cruel laughter of the children as they hurled insults and ethnic slurs at him.
No mates, eh? Guess even ya mum didn’t want ya. Bit rough, aye?
Back off to wherever ya crawled out from, ya filthy—
Specter opened his eyes as his phone rang, the harsh sound pulling him out of the dark pit of his thoughts. He stared at it, lying on the nightstand next to the whiskey. He didn’t recognize the number, though that wasn’t surprising. Most of his contacts were anonymous, and he liked it that way. But he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Hell, he didn’t feel like doing anything at all. His thumb hovered over the screen, tempted to let it ring out. But it rang again. And again.
Oh, c’mon. A dude can’t even have a good old wallow in peace, eh?
He thought about throwing the phone across the room, but instead, he let it buzz a few more times. Finally, with a sigh, he swiped to answer.
"…"
He didn’t say anything. Just listened.
The voice on the other end was deep and calm. "The Lioness is restless," it said.
Specter stayed silent, staring at the curtain where the faint sunlight crept in. His mind buzzed with a thousand sarcastic comebacks, but none of them reached his lips.
Lioness is restless, huh? Ever thought ‘bout chuckin’ her some Xanax instead of buggin’ me, eh?
"The Lioness… needs to be fed by evening," the voice continued. "Same terms."
The line went dead.
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Specter let the phone slip from his hand. It landed softly on the bed beside him. The Lioness. Another job. Another kill. Another day pretending he wasn’t falling apart inside.
The thoughts pressed in on him again, darker this time, heavier. He was a killer. He had always been a killer. But it wasn’t the money or the thrill that had driven him to this life. It was something else. Something deeper.
The need to be seen.
He laughed again but this time it died in his throat, replaced by something heavier. He pressed his palms against his face, the coldness of his hands the only thing grounding him in this moment. "Well, congrats, Specter." The words came out barely above a whisper, hollow. "Everyone sees ya now. Even the ghosts, bro."
His eyes drifted to the scattered pill bottles on the nightstand. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for them. He popped the tops off a few, not even checking the dosages. Whether it was too many or too few didn’t really matter anymore. He swallowed the pills dry, the taste bitter on his tongue.
Minutes passed, and slowly, the voice in his head began to quiet. The anvil on his shoulders lifted ever so slightly and the fog cleared, just a little.
Specter stood up, moving slowly to the wardrobe. He needed to get ready for the job. Another night, another kill. It was the only thing he was good at, after all. He walked over to the wardrobe, pulling open the door, his fingers brushing past the expensive suits and shirts hanging inside. He reached for one of his more expensive suits. As he straightened it, he muttered, "At least when I cark it, I’ll look sharp. Maybe they’ll chuck me in an Armani coffin, eh?"
He smirked at the thought, but deep down, he knew that joke wouldn’t keep the dark thoughts at bay forever. Still, for now, it was enough. Just enough to keep him moving forward.
Specter adjusted his Tom Ford suit, running his hand down the sleeve to smooth a wrinkle. It was his favorite one—sleek, tailored to perfection, and expensive, but that was the story of his life. Expensive everything. He lived in a world where he didn’t just buy luxuries; he shit in things more valuable than most people''s vintage fine china collections. A cruel smirk tugged at his lips as he looked around the room.
This place—a private lounge perched on the top floor of a boutique hotel in Midtown—oozed wealth. The soft glow from gold-plated chandeliers reflected off the polished marble floors, while plush velvet chairs, rich in deep reds and blues, were spread throughout the room like thrones. He could catch the faint scent of freshly polished wood mixing with the aroma of expensive cigars and perfume—notes of jasmine and sandalwood hanging in the air. The light jazz playing in the background was faint, like a whisper, something that soothed the nerves without demanding attention. The light caught in the crystal glasses at the bar, fracturing into rainbows that danced across the polished surfaces. Specter could see bottles of rare whiskeys and liquors lining the shelves—each bottle worth more than most people’s monthly rent.
To a normal person, it would have been captivating. Breathtaking, even. A slice of heaven carved from the ugliness of the world. But Specter wasn’t normal. He was here for one thing: to get the specifics of his job, find his target, and kill them. His eyes drifted to the whiskey in front of him, untouched.
Maybe if I drink enough, I''ll finally cark it from alcohol poisoning… or just get legless. Same diff, aye?
Specter leaned back in the velvet chair, closing his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t even sure if she’d come in person. Her name—or at least the name the rumors gave her—was Jane. But in reality, she was known as "Wǔshī." The Lioness.
Wǔshī wasn’t just feared, she was legend. The kind of legend whispered in dark rooms by men who knew too much. Men who had seen too much. She’d earned the nickname after single-handedly organizing the massacre of an entire syndicate that had dared cross her in Hong Kong. Rumor had it she walked through the carnage as calm as a summer breeze, stepping over bodies and blood like it was nothing more than a mildly inconvenient rainstorm. It was her way—any threat, any competition; she wiped it out without thinking once, let alone twice. Arms dealing, drugs, trafficking, money laundering, murder, professional assassinations… she ruled them all. If she wanted something, she took it. If she didn’t, she erased it from existence.
Specter wasn’t intimidated by her nickname though. He had been called worse. He had killed worse. And besides, whatever her real name was, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t using his real name either. Hell, he couldn’t even remember his real name anymore. All that was left was Specter. The ghost that kills.
The sound of heels clicking on hardwood broke his thoughts. He opened his eyes.
A woman entered the room. No older than thirty, she was stunning. Breathtaking in a way that would make men stop and stare—then wish they hadn''t when they realized who they were dealing with. She was tall, around five-foot-ten, with long, jet-black hair cascading down her back. Her skin was porcelain, flawless, as if it had never seen the sun or known an injury, and her dark almond-shaped eyes scanned Specter with sharp, predatory accuracy. Those eyes... he could get lost in them if his mind weren’t already a mess. Her lips, a deep crimson, contrasted perfectly with the fitted dark black dress that hugged her body in all the right places. A beautiful psychopath. The famous Wǔshī.
Specter straightened up slightly, not out of respect, but because he felt he should at least try to look alive. He noted her three bodyguards—behemoths of men, built like they were raised in barracks or bred in gyms. The first one, tall and broad, had the distinct look of someone from Northern Europe. His platinum-blond hair and ice-blue eyes made it obvious. Probably ex-military. The second guard, a brown-skinned man, had a gold tooth that gleamed every time he shifted his jaw. He had a tattoo on his neck that Specter recognized as a mark of one of the Columbian cartels. The third was Asian, stoic, and quiet, his hands resting just a little too close to the holster under his jacket. Each one dangerous in their own right, but none of them scared Specter.
Just how many of their types had he killed just yesterday alone?
Wǔshī sat gracefully on a chair beside him, her gaze still fixed on him. "Do you know why you’re here?" she asked, skipping any pleasantries.
Specter leaned back, the corners of his lips twitching upward in what might have been a smile, but it lacked warmth. "I’m guessing this ain’t a relationship advice sesh, eh?" he quipped dryly. His voice was low, rough around the edges, and though the words were meant to be humorous, there was no humor in his tone.
Her lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something close enough to show a glimpse of her perfect white teeth. Beautiful and dangerous—quite the combination. Maybe he should have picked up a diamond ring on his way here.
"No," she replied, voice smooth as silk. "Not for that."
A thousand words buzzed in Specter’s mind, but none made it past his mouth. Could be group therapy, eh? Lord knows I could use it. Or maybe she’s here to pop me off. Could be keen on that, to be honest.
"Briarcliff," Wǔshī continued. "Two citizens named Martin Lawrence and Rebecca Lee were flayed alive these past two Saturdays. I want you to find their killer, and kill them."
Specter’s expression remained unchanged, though the name Briarcliff rang a bell. Briarcliff? Didn’t I do a job there, what, four years ago? Oh yeah, that’s where that muppet with the cleaver had a go at me.
He looked at Wǔshī. "Why’s Wǔshī herself fussed ‘bout a couple of randoms? Unless they ain’t so random, eh?"
Her perfect features darkened slightly. "I’m not interested in the victims. I’m interested in the killer."
"Been there before. You sure the killer you’re after isn’t the..."
"The Butcher?" she interrupted.
The Butcher, huh? So that’s the nutter’s name, then. Specter nodded.
"No," she said, her voice cold. "My contacts in the Briarcliff police department have confirmed that the Butcher and this ‘flayer’ are most likely two different people. I want the flayer."
Specter exhaled slowly. The Butcher, the Flayer. He didn’t give a damn about either. I ain’t your bloody cleanup crew for the underworld, mate. Don’t mop up messes, and I sure as hell ain’t some genie grantin'' ya murder wishes.
"Same terms as always," Wǔshī continued, crossing her legs elegantly. "You’ll be paid well. More than well, actually."
The money didn’t interest him. Once you reached Specter’s level, the numbers stopped meaning anything. What was another payday when all you wanted was an end to the job, not the paycheck? Maybe this would be the one that did him in. Killed by another killer. Now that’s poetic. Bet Shakespeare’d be stoked.
"Right then, I’m in," Specter said, his voice hollow.
Wǔshī’s gaze remained on Specter for a beat too long, a smile just brushing the edge of her lips. "Find him. Kill him." Her voice was silk wrapped around a blade. She didn’t need to say the rest; it was carved into the air between them. Failure wasn’t an option.
With that, she stood, turned and left, her bodyguards moving like shadows behind her.
Specter watched them go. They’re like a pack of bloody portable chargers, always stuck to her ass. Can’t have her battery dyin'' mid-shootout, eh?
He sighed, the humor failing to keep the fog at bay. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a few pill bottles. Popping a few pills into his palm, he downed them with a swig of whiskey. The warmth of the liquor burned down his throat, chasing the pills into his system.
He licked his lips, staring out at the city skyline through the massive windows. "Let’s see who’s got the better chops, then," he muttered.