Captured

Rain dotted the windshield in uneven patterns, each droplet blurring the faint glow of streetlights reflected on the glass. He watched as the sedan rolled to a stop several meters from the back entrance of a residential building. The car’s engine went quiet, leaving only the soft patter of rain to fill the silence.

He leaned back in the driver’s seat, his gaze flicking upwards to the dark sky. Beads of water fell faster now, illuminated by the orange halo of a nearby streetlamp. A slow smile spread across his face. Tonight, everything was aligning perfectly.

The sudden slam of a car door snapped his focus back. His target had emerged, a bulky silhouette moving toward the trunk. The younger man inhaled deeply, a familiar surge of adrenaline coursing through him. There was a certain art to what he did—precision, patience, perfection. He’d quickly built his reputation on it, and failure was not a part of his vocabulary.

Adjusting the fit of his black leather gloves, he reached for the firearm resting on the passenger seat. He inspected it briefly before pulling a silencer from the glove box, his movements calm and deliberate. Three minutes, maybe five. That was all he needed. Afterward, he could be home in time for dinner.

His reflection stared back at him from the rear-view mirror. Despite the red tinge in his eyes—a testament to sleepless nights—his youthful, almost angelic features were as striking as ever. He quickly adjusted his cap and then stepped out into the rain.

The cold drizzle quickly intensified, soaking through the night’s quiet hum. He pulled his leather jacket tighter, the weight of the concealed gun a comforting presence against his side. He slowly approached his target, who, at that moment was busy taking boxes from the trunk, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.

Stopping a foot behind, he spoke softly. “Sir.”

The man turned abruptly, his bearded face flushed with irritation. He was stocky, with a full belly and the demeanor of someone accustomed to barking orders. Rain streamed down his coat as he glared at the younger man.

“What do you want?” the man snapped.

He smiled—calm, unthreatening.

“What do you want?” the man repeated, impatience dripping from every word. “If you’re here to waste my time, you might as well make yourself useful. Help me with these boxes.” He gestured at the trunk, water pooling around his feet.

“I can do that,” the younger man said, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering.

“Well? Get on with it!” the older man barked.

He remained rooted to the spot.

The man huffed. “Young man, if you’re not going to help, get out of my way.”

“This won’t take long,” he replied, his hand shifting subtly beneath the jacket.

The older man’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his face. He reached for his phone, but the younger man’s voice froze him mid-motion.

“Put that down,” he ordered, the quiet menace in his tone unmistakable.

The phone slipped from the man’s grasp, his hands trembling as realization dawned. “Who are you?” he stammered.

The younger man pulled the gun from beneath his jacket, the barrel steady, its silencer glinting faintly in the rain. He didn’t flinch as he squeezed the trigger, each shot finding its mark with precision. Five rounds. Quick. Clean. The older man’s body crumpled to the ground, his wide eyes fixed in eternal shock.

Lowering the gun, he let out a slow breath. The thud of the body against wet pavement was almost soothing in its finality.

“It’s Richard,” he murmured, his words barely audible over the rain. “But you didn’t need to know that.”