Chapter 3
Iwake to a wall of sunlight stabbing directly into my skull.
Hotel rooms always do this.
All that pristine, expensive blackout technology…and somehow the light still finds one microscopic gap in the curtains and aims for my face like it holds a grudge.
I groan, roll to the side, and pat the nightstand until my fingers find the crystal tumbler I never bothered to wash. There’s still a swallow of whiskey at the bottom. With one eye squeezed shut against the glare, I tip it back.
The burn kicks straight down my throat.
“That’ll pep you up,” I croak.
I flop onto my stomach, arms wrapped loosely around the pillow, letting out a long breath that sinks into the mattress. My eyes fall shut almost immediately. Sleep drags at me in warm, heavy waves, whispering that a few more minutes won’t hurt anyone.
My shoulders ache—a dull, satisfying throb from hacking at packed earth with a shovel the size of a toddler’s toy—but last night’s hot shower and the bowl of tofu tempura ramen I ordered from room service worked miracles.
Nothing knocks me out faster than salt, heat, and fermented soybeans. I’m soft like that.
Master Kenji lives only a couple hours’ drive from here. Plenty of time to rest before I see him. He’ll probably scold me for letting my form get sloppy, then feed me until I can’t breathe. The man only knows discipline and hospitality.
I let myself drift.
Almost asleep again.
Then the buzzing starts.
One vibration.
Then another.
Then another.
A relentless, mosquito-like drone coming from the phone beside my head—each buzz sharpening into a tiny spike of irritation. If this keeps up, my “no murders” vow from last night is going straight into the trash.
I grope blindly for the phone, intending to silence it, but the screen lights up before I can swipe.
A whole string of notifications. All from the Guild app.
That wakes me up faster than the whiskey.
I blink the sleep from my eyes and scroll through them. Looks like the message boards are losing their collective minds about something—reacting in real time, half chaos, half enthusiasm, exactly like assassins on the internet always are.
“Damn, they’re not playing.”
“Biggest bounty I’ve seen in years.”
“Biggest bounty in Guild history, numb nuts.”
“Worth the risk?”
“For this payout? Hell yes.”
“Wanna buddy up on this one? 50/50?”
“Fuck yes, brother.”
“Someone’s about to get smoked.”
I snort under my breath. Vultures. Give them a juicy contract and they salivate like it’s treat time at the zoo. The Guild tries to pretend we’re professionals, but the message boards always expose the truth.
Curious now, I scroll upward.
The comments keep getting wilder.
“That’s not a bounty, that’s a retirement plan.”
“I knew that bitch would piss off the wrong people.”
“I’m calling it now: contract will be claimed by breakfast.”
“If anybody else gets here first, I’m gonna lose my mind.”
“This is gonna be fun.”
I frown, half amused, half confused. They don’t usually gossip this hard unless it’s political. Or personal.
Another notification pops up—bounty listing finalized.
My thumb hesitates.
Then I tap it.
The screen loads and I shoot upright in bed, blankets falling around my waist, the cold AC licking across every inch of exposed skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.
My throat goes tight.
The bounty is not on some dignitary.
Not on a crime boss.
Not on a traitor.
It’s on me.
My face.
My file.
My kill history.
A price on my fucking head.
My heartbeat stumbles.
“What the hell…?”
The details sharpen as the app registers the full posting:
Saint James has broken the Guild’s #1 law and is sentenced to death.
Payout unrestricted.
Open to all active and former operatives.
My stomach knots.
That law isn’t just written. It’s sacred.
No kill without contract.
No exceptions. No bending. No excuses. You break it, you’re done. Most assassins would rather die than cross that line.
Most.
A sharp sting rises in my chest, something old and unwelcome, and I force it back down before the name attached to it can break through.
I focus on the screen instead, scanning for the mistake.
There has to be one.
The contract from last night should be here. I logged the hit. Accepted it through the official channel. Claimed it within the window. Retinal verification, clean execution. Nothing sloppy, nothing suspicious.
I open my kill history and it’s fucking empty.
Not partially. Not corrupted.
Gone.
As if I never accepted the contract. Never confirmed it. Never touched the man who’s currently six feet under the dirt outside town.
My chest tightens.
“How the hell did—”
My phone vibrates in my hand again, harder this time, as if the Guild app itself is frantic. The message boards are exploding—notifications piling faster than I can swipe.
Assassins planning meetups.
Calling dibs.
Splitting travel routes.
Placing bets on top of the bounty like this is some kind of sick tournament.
And the number… the bounty itself is obscene.
A figure so big it feels like an insult to the entire industry. Designed to tempt every hunter alive. Designed to make them sprint.
The kill needs to be confirmed within two days.
A guarantee the pursuit will be immediate and vicious.
My mouth goes dry.
“Fuck.”
The posting time catches my eye.
One hour ago.
Which means the hunters are already moving.
Already packing.
Already tracking.
And I’ve been unconscious in a hotel bed, drooling on the pillow while the world geared up to put me in the ground.
Before I can think, the screen refreshes. Everything freezes for a moment—then collapses outward, dumping me unceremoniously back at the login page.
I try my username.
Access denied.
User not found.
My stomach drops.
That’s the moment it hits—really hits—like a blade settling between my ribs.
My identity is gone.
My history erased.
My status burned out of existence.
I am no longer Guild. No longer protected.
I’m the world’s most wanted mark.
Every assassin across every continent now has my name glowing on their screen.
And they’ve all had a one-hour head start.
I’m already moving before the thought finishes forming.
Time to fucking go.