The side road was narrow and cracked, lined with overgrown weeds that spilled onto the pavement. Streetlights flickered weakly, their pale glow barely reaching the edges of the asphalt. In the distance, perhaps a hundred meters away, the silhouette of an orphanage loomed against the night sky—a squat, aging building surrounded by a tall perimeter fence topped with barbed wire.
The structure looked forgotten, abandoned by time, its windows dark and lifeless.
But the focus wasn't on the orphanage.
It was on the van parked just off the road, tucked into the shadow of a withered tree. The vehicle was old and unremarkable—a faded white panel van with rust creeping along its edges and a dented bumper that suggested it had seen better days.
Inside, the air was thick with tension and the faint smell of stale coffee.
Three figures occupied the cramped space.
At the steering wheel sat a man who looked like he'd been pulled straight out of a rural countryside town. Henry was his name. He was heavyset, his belly pressing against the wheel, his thick fingers drumming absently on the dashboard.
His face was weathered and lined, his skin tanned from years under the sun. A scruffy beard clung to his jaw, streaked with gray, and his hair—what remained of it—was thin and combed over in a futile attempt to cover his balding crown.
He wore a plaid flannel shirt, faded and wrinkled, over a stained white undershirt. A pair of worn jeans and scuffed work boots completed the ensemble. Everything about him screamed *country folk.*
In the passenger seat sat a woman—Mandy. She was the complete opposite of Henry in every way. Her style was unmistakably gothic. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain, contrasting sharply with the dark eyeliner that framed her sharp, calculating eyes.
Her lips were painted a deep, matte black. Her hair was dyed jet black, cut short and asymmetrical, with one side longer than the other. She wore a tight black leather jacket over a band tee, paired with ripped black jeans and heavy combat boots. Silver rings adorned her fingers, and a chain hung from her belt loop.
She sat with one leg crossed over the other, a small nail file in hand, her expression one of complete and utter boredom as she meticulously polished her nails.
In the backseat sprawled Cal, Mandy's younger brother. He was a lanky teenager, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with a mop of unkempt hair dyed an obnoxious shade of neon blue. His face was angular and sharp, his eyes half-lidded in perpetual indifference.
He wore an oversized black hoodie with some obscure streetwear brand logo splashed across the chest, paired with distressed jeans and expensive-looking sneakers. A pair of wireless earbuds dangled from his neck, and his fingers scrolled lazily across his phone screen. Everything about him screamed *Gen Z ruffian.*
Henry cleared his throat, his voice carrying a thick, slow drawl—the kind that stretched words out like they had all the time in the world.
"So, Mandy," he began, his tone casual but curious, "let me get this straight. Some weird fella on that Unemployed Assassin Bureau site—y'know, the darkweb one—put out a bounty. Five million dollars, if I recall correct. And the job? Well, it's one of them quest-type gigs, ain't it?
You and your brother Cal here stumbled across it, figured it was somethin' you two could pull off. Am I right?"
Mandy didn't look up from her nails. She blew lightly on one finger, inspecting it with clinical disinterest.
Cal, however, groaned audibly from the backseat. He leaned forward slightly, his face twisted in exasperation.
"Bro, Henry," Cal said, his voice laced with that particular brand of teenage impatience. "We literally already went over this. Like, twice. Why are you looping back to the same questions? It's giving… pointless energy, for real."
Henry chuckled, unbothered. "Well, pardon me, son. Just tryin' to make sure I got all my ducks in a row, y'know? Can't be too careful with these sorta things."
Cal rolled his eyes and slumped back into his seat, muttering something under his breath.
Henry continued, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to catch Mandy's reflection. "So, the task. Just wanna be clear. We're supposed to take out some old caretaker lady, right? And you, Mandy—what exactly are you doin' in all this?"
Mandy's jaw tightened. She stopped filing her nails and slowly turned her head toward Henry, her expression flat and utterly devoid of patience. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line.
She stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Then, without a word, she turned away and climbed into the backseat, brushing past Cal as she reached for a black suitcase tucked near the rear door.
Henry blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. "Well, alright then," he muttered, scratching his beard. He didn't seem offended—just mildly confused.
Through the rearview mirror, he watched as Mandy unzipped the suitcase and began pulling out items. Cal, sitting beside her, was already holding something in his hands—a mask of some kind.
It was pale, almost porcelain-like, with delicate features and strands of long, white synthetic hair attached to the edges.
Henry's eyes lingered for a moment, then he shifted his gaze back to the road ahead, tapping his fingers on the wheel.
"Y'know," he began again, his voice taking on a more thoughtful tone, "whoever put out this mission… they gotta be one strange fella. Rich, sure, but strange. Five million dollars for somethin' like this? Sounds like someone with too much money and not enough sense. Like they're playin' some kinda fantasy game in their head, y'know?"
He paused, shaking his head. "I tell ya, the Unemployed Assassin Bureau ain't what it used to be. Ever since that whole Azaqor mess, the whole operation's gone sideways. Used to be they had standards, y'know? Now they're takin' all sorts of weird gigs. Just ain't the same no more."
Cal snorted from the backseat. "Bro, no one cares."
Henry ignored him. "And that Witnessin' of Hollow fella," he continued, his voice lowering slightly, "word is, he used the Bureau's secret site. Hired assassins, used 'em, then disposed of 'em like trash. And get this—rumor has it, he's got past connections with the descendants of the folks who founded the Bureau. And them descendants? They're trained in some bizarre kinda arts. The kinda stuff that lets 'em manipulate world events, shift things to their favor."
Cal's eyes flicked up from his phone, his expression skeptical. "Where'd you even hear that?"
Henry shrugged. "High-ranking member of the Bureau told me. Real secretive-like. Said the whole agency's actually the creation of some clan. A specialization craft, they called it. And them folks? They're the ones pullin' the strings."
Cal snorted again, louder this time. "Bro, that sounds like conspiracy theory trash. Like, no cap, there's so many folk conspiracies out there. Especially from those *Veilbreak* podcast dudes. They just make up random nonsense and pass it off as truth. Honestly, they're probably controlled opposition. Acting like they're 'one of us,' but really? Totally bought by the elites."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice picking up speed. "Like, if you ask me, *everything* on the internet nowadays is lies. Just psyops to keep us in their control. And if what that guy told you is true, Henry? Then all those Azaqor incidents? Those were *part* of the psyop. Serving those descendants you mentioned."
Cal paused, his eyes narrowing. "And if my hypothesis is correct? Then one of those clan descendants *is* the one who founded the Unemployed Assassin Bureau. Not the whole clan—just one person."
Henry's face shifted, his brow furrowing. His hands tightened slightly on the wheel. "Well, shoot," he muttered, his voice tinged with unease. "If that's true… then Azaqor itself might be the current overseer of the Bureau."
Cal nodded slowly. "Yup. And if you ask me, Azaqor's probably a *heritage doctrine system*—a branch of that secretive group. That'd explain how Azaqor turned the agency into a playground without any repercussions."
The van fell silent for a moment, the weight of their conversation settling over them.
Then, the side door of the van slid open.
Mandy stepped out.
She was transformed.
Gone was the gothic aesthetic. In its place was the appearance of a middle-aged caretaker. She wore a modest, faded blue dress that hung loosely on her frame, the fabric worn and slightly frayed at the hem. Over it, she wore a beige cardigan with missing buttons. On her head sat a gray wig, the synthetic hair styled into a neat bun. Her face was covered in expertly applied makeup—wrinkles etched into her forehead and around her eyes, age spots dotting her cheeks. She looked *years* older.
"Alright," she said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Let's get this crap over with."
Henry climbed out of the van, stretching his arms. "So, just to be clear," he said, gesturing broadly, "we sneak up on that old lady, and then we—" He made a dramatic slicing motion across his throat with his finger.
Cal's eye twitched. His jaw clenched. His gaze shifted to Henry, and he made a slow, deliberate gesture—a fist raised, aimed directly at Henry's face.
Henry grinned sheepishly. "Alright, alright. Just makin' sure."
He turned to Mandy. "So, you'll dress up as the old lady for a while, and we help you out indefinitely. Client's puttin' down 400 grand each upfront, then another 400 grand each month. The longer we keep this goin', the more money we make. Could go way beyond that five million."
Cal's fist twitched again.
Mandy, now fully in character, adjusted her wig and sighed. "You two stop bickering and focus on the task ahead."
All three of them shifted, their faces hardening. Their eyes sharpened, their postures straightening. The air around them grew tense, focused.
And somewhere above them, atop one of the orphanage buildings, a shadow moved.
It was barely visible—a silhouette against the night sky, perched on the edge of the roof. It was still, silent, watching.
Its presence was cold.
Unnatural.
And it was staring directly at them.