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๐๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ญ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ด ๐ต๐ธ๐ฐ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ด.
๐๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ญ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฉ.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ณ๐บ.
๐๐ถ๐ฆ๐ด๐ด ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ช๐ค๐ฉ ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ข๐ด๐ต๐ด ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐จ๐ฆ๐ณ
1/2 CHAPTER TWO
The shot didn't sound like much. It never did. A crack too small for the size of what it ended, swallowed almost immediately by the wind moving over the rooftop. Below, the man from the sedan folded against his own kitchen door and didn't get back up, and somewhere inside that house a woman was about to open a door onto something she would spend the rest of her life trying to un-see.
Clean, said the Butcher, satisfied, already bored. Always clean when it's fast.
Clean for us, the Elder said. Not for her.
Armo didn't watch the door open. He'd learned a long time ago not to watch that part โ not out of mercy, exactly. More that some things, once seen, took up permanent residence, and he had enough permanent residents already.
"Confirmed," Shoรซn said in his ear, flat now, the debrief voice replacing the roof voice like a light switching off. "Clean line, no secondary witnesses on approach. Pack it up."
"Copy."
He broke the rifle down without needing to look at his hands, muscle memory doing the work while the rest of him stayed somewhere just slightly outside his body, the way it always did after. The crown had gone quiet, or as quiet as it ever got โ a low murmur under everything, heads settling against each other like a nest of something that had just fed and wanted to sleep.
He had a picture on the fridge, the Widow said, softer than before. Did you see it? Before.
I saw it, Armo said.
You didn't have to look.
I look at everything. That's the job.
The Widow didn't answer that. She rarely pushed once he shut a door, but she had a way of leaving the silence heavier than it had been before she spoke, like she wanted him to sit in it a little longer than he wanted to.
โ
The safehouse debrief room smelled like burnt coffee and cold electronics, the same as every other room the Graders kept for this purpose in every city Armo had ever worked. Shoรซn was already there when he came in, sleeves pushed up, a tablet open in front of her that she wasn't really looking at.
"You were quiet up there," she said, not looking up. "Eleven seconds, then you went somewhere. I know the difference between focus and somewhere else."
Punished for being looked at; Given the power to make everyone look away
CHAPTER ONE
The rooftop was cold enough that Armo could feel it through his boots, through the concrete, through eleven stories of dead building beneath him. Above his skull, the crown shifted โ a soft, wet rustle, like something breathing underwater.
He's late, said the Elder.
He's not late, said the Needle. You're just old and you experience time wrong.
Both of you shut up, Armo said, not out loud. Never out loud. The heads heard him fine either way.
In his ear, Shoรซn's voice arrived clean and close, like she was standing behind him instead of forty miles away in a room full of screens.
"You get lonely up there? Talking to yourself again?"
"I don't talk to myself. I talk to them. There's a difference."
"There really isn't." A pause, the particular kind of pause that meant she was smiling at something on a monitor he couldn't see. "Target's two minutes out. Silver sedan, east entrance. He'll go in through the kitchen โ the wife likes to cook."
"Sentimental."
"Everyone's sentimental until you're the one holding the knife." A beat. "You eat today?"
"Define eat."
"Armo."
"I had coffee."
"That's not a food group."
She worries about you, said the Widow, low and pleased with herself, coiling closer to the base of his skull like she wanted to be included in the conversation. Tell her you'd eat better if she cooked for you.
Tell her nothing, said the Hollow. You're not here to be fed. You're here to finish the job and go back to the room they gave you.
Armo didn't answer either of them. He lay flat against the roof's ledge and watched the street come alive under sodium light โ the sedan sliding in exactly on schedule, a man stepping out in a good coat, keys in hand, entirely unaware that eleven stories up, something with six mouths was deciding how he'd die.
"Talk to me about him," Armo said. "Not the file. You."
"He's a river-thing," Shoรซn said. "Old blood, older than the city he's standing in. He's spent forty years pretending to be a man who sells insurance. Has two kids who think their father works too much. Doesn't know we're here."
"Doesn't know why he has to die."
"None of them ever do." Something in her voice thinned out, just slightly, just enough that only someone listening for it would catch it. Armo was always listening for it. "You getting soft on me, Armo?"
"Just making conversation."
"You don't make conversation. You interrogate people gently and call it flirting."
She's not wrong, said the Needle, delighted.
Focus, said the Butcher, already restless, already tired of watching. He's walking. Take the shot before the wife comes out and you have an audience.
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@shinyitv good stuff man. like that you incorporated current affairs like corgi into it too. love the storybook feel especially, and the gouache style. I,m not an A.i artist but i understand its usefulness and looking forward to embracing/incorporating it along side my art.