Salvation

Levi

Blood drips from my hands, trickling down my fingers like crimson tears. My shirt is stained, the white fabric soaked with the dark red liquid. I make my way into the tall building, a majestic skyscraper with a sleek, modern design. The ceiling made entirely of glass allowing the light to sip in unhindered.

I'm pissed to the core as I make my way to the elevator, my feet grazing the polished graphite wooden floors. The metallic scent of blood lingers in the air around me, the trail of blood behind me as it drips from my hand and once white sparkling shirt.

It was my favorite shirt and now it was a masterpiece, a revelation of my work.

I pass a few people on my way, they glance up as I walk by, their eyes flickering over the bloodstains but not a single eyebrow is raised.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft whoosh, and I stepped inside, my reflection staring back at me, my eyes bloodshot red from the rage inside me. I lean back against the wall, slowing relaxing into a familiar numbness.

The doors slid open and I stepped out into the deserted corridor. I walked slowly, my footsteps echoing off the walls, until I reached the end of the right corridor.

There, I stopped in front of a door, my fingers gripped the doorknob. The door creaked open, the sound of moan fills the room turning my eyes dark and making my ears bubble.

There he is, the center of my rage lounging carelessly on the couch as if he owned the world and all the pain in it. The sight of him being so cozy makes my blood boil, a slow anger bases at the back of my head. He sits there with his legs stretched out, one arm rests lazily over the armrest, completely at ease. His head is tilted back, resting on the top of the couch, eyes half-closed as if he has nothing to worry about, nothing to fear.

He doesn’t flinch when I enter the room. His posture remains the same, relaxed, almost bored, my presence was nothing but a scenery to him.

I had one fucking rule and he broke it.

A woman kneels in front of him, his hands tangled in her dark brown hair, while he shoves his cock deep into her throat. The sound of choking fills the room as she gags and slurps on his cock constantly.

“Get out,” I order, staring down at her figure. She jumps at the sound, her body stiffening in reaction to another presence in the room. Her eyes widens in fear as she catches sight of me standing by the door covered in blood that isn’t mine.

“Stay” he commands, his voice smooth, authoritative. She hesitates, caught between flight and obedience.

It’s the words of her Boss against mine, there is only way to find out who matters more.

He shoved her head back, forces his cock down her throat, arches his back into the seat for a more comfortable feeling.

I take a seat on the chair in front of me, my hands reaches out instinctively, fingers wrapping around the cold metal handle of the chair. Without a second thought, I grip it tightly and spin the chair around in one smooth motion.

As the chair twirls, my gaze shift with it, locking onto them.

Her body freezes when I press a gun against the back of her head.

“Leave or I will blow your brains out” I push the gun further into her head.

Rob looks at me knowing that I wouldn’t hesitate to have her blood splattered against the white walls he insisted on changing into last week. He also knows that he won't be able to do anything if I killed her rght there.

She quickly gets up off her knees and rushes out of the room before the next second with drool running down her lips.

"What the fuck was that for?" he thundered, his voice vibrating with the raw of fury of someone denied what they thought was theirs.

His fist clenched as if he could lay a finger on me and I would let him,But I didn’t flinch.

I just sat there, my back pressed firmly against the chair. My eyes met his, unwavering, burning with something far more dangerous than frustration.

He crossed me, and there was going to be consequences.

Realizing that my lips will remain shut with not an answer to his question, he falls back into his official seat with an heavy thud.

Those cold resentful eye avert to the brown desk that separates us.

He reaches for the top drawer, his fingers curling around the handle. The drawer slides open with a soft scrape and he rummages inside. A moment later he pulls something out and throws it unto the desk.

I reached out and picked the brown envelope tossed before me, the blood on my hands smeared across the surface leaving dark, crimson steaks on the once-pristine envelope.

“What is this?” I ask as I hold up the bloodstained envelope.

“Your next target” he responds, his tone flat. He leans back in his chair resting his fingers on his forehead hoping to get rid of me easily.

Anything for a sloppy office FUCK.

“What?” The words escapes me, more like gasp than a question as I stare at him in disbelief. The envelope feels weak, different from the ones I have held over the ages.

I have a rule and it has been very specific since I began working--Never bother me during a mission

Hexagon is a fucking shithole, a place you go to when you have nothing else to lose. Filled with men who would kill for money or power. We work for the 1% elites, the fuckers who have a say in everything that happens in Athens.

Each year, 100 men are recruited and only five make it into the final stage, what happened to the remaining 95, they disappear from the face of the earth like they never existed. Everyone knows what happens when they sign the contract to join Hexagon. It’s a death trap and we are all slaves but we do it anyways. It is written in fine bold print for all to see that the consequence of failing to make it is death. And the consequences of making it is also death.

We are trained mercilessly, day and night like a dog, we have no other ulterior motives than to satisfy our clients. Who are our clients? Rich and wealthy conglomerates, politicians with the most power that even the president of Athens bows to.

Hexagon is hidden from the world, it doesn't exist under any radar, we are all dead men, whether you make it or not.

Once we finish our Initiation, we are giving a new name aside from the number we were given on the day we were recruited.

Out of the 5 recruited each year, only 1 becomes a GHOST. The devil himself. The type you would send to wipe out a whole city without batting an eye for the innocents within. Born to never show weakness, to never miss a target, to never make a mistake and most of all, to never turn our back on Hexagon.

A defense system to make sure they had all their assets in check.

Rob Anderson is an asset, a Ghost before he rose higher in ranks and became a Baron, there are many like him, some were ghosts just like himself, now given high ranked works and a team at his disposal and others were passed down from their fathers, to be Barons.

I am one of Rob's men.

There are people higher than Rob, never seen, never spoken of, no one knows their faces and I bet Rob doesn't too. He receives the order and then passes it on to us.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demand, a hint of confusion in my voice as I pull the picture from the envelope. The image stare back at me— a man, average in every way with dark hair neatly combed, brown eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses, and a black suit that screams ordinary yet expensive.

There’s nothing special about him, nothing that hints at why he is important enough to be singled out and hunted.

What bothers me the most, it’s been ten years since I was given a single target, ten long years since I’ve had to focus on just one person. The thrill used to be in the hunt, in tracking down an entire pack, outsmarting them, and watching as they scatter before I take them down one by one. That was the real game, the real challenge—one target was too easy, too normal and it kills the fun before it even begins.

I shake the picture in front of him, “Why this man? Why now? You know this isn’t what I do,” I say, my words laced with disappointment.

The man in the picture was a downgrade, far from the 1% I have hunted down and taken care of.

Worst of all, I was pulled out of a mission.

Rob knows well that I need a week to recuperate, to clear my head and have fun before I begin hunting my next target.

I can still hear the screams of my last target, he is alive but only three seconds untill a chainsaw pierces right through his heart.

I wanted to be there to watch the grand finale, I have been after him for three days and I could finally get a show before I was summoned with urgency.

Now I am more pissed.

What’s so special about him that demands such urgency.

“Tonight is the deadline” he says. I look up at him, sensing the hurry to have this man dead. Something feels off but that doesn't concern me. Can I turn down the offer? No, I ride with this. This dangerous feeling I get for picking this hasty job has me thinking, what mess am i going to get myself into?

Could there be something hidden behind his death.

I take another look at the target, he has a smile on his face. If he knew tonight was his last night on earth, he wouldn’t dare smile. He is supposed to be my next target. And despite everything in me that rebels against it, I know I have no choice.

“Finish the job and report back to me” he ends the conservation as I look up at him.

Hexagon will never tell you the reason why a client has to be taken out, there is no point asking. Sometimes you figure it out while carrying out the job and others, you never know. Each victim has their way of begging their way through, music to my ears when they ramble and plead.

I pick up the envelope and make my way to the door, the picture clutched in my hand. I can’t shake off the feeling that there’s more to this man than meets the eye and why Hexagon wants him gone so quickly.

I turn to look at him,

“Next time you have a bitch over, be sure to lock the door” I inform him, watching for any flicker of reaction in his expression. His frown gets easily replaced by a smile knowing that he was done with me and could have the bitch over again.