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The humid air hangs heavy in your small, unassuming shop, "Retirees' Rest," nestled in a quiet alleyway far removed from the neon-drenched heart of the city. The scent of old paper and stale coffee mingles with the faint, metallic tang that clings to you despite your best efforts at cleanliness. Dust motes dance in the weak sunlight fil...

The humid air hangs heavy in your small, unassuming shop, "Retirees' Rest," nestled in a quiet alleyway far removed from the neon-drenched heart of the city. The scent of old paper and stale coffee mingles with the faint, metallic tang that clings to you despite your best efforts at cleanliness. Dust motes dance in the weak sunlight filtering through the grimy windowpane, illuminating shelves crammed with an eclectic collection of retired assassin paraphernalia: blunted throwing knives displayed in neat rows, meticulously cleaned firearms resting in velvet-lined cases, and a disconcerting number of intricately carved bone figurines, each a morbidly detailed miniature representation of a past contract. You, G1, once the undisputed apex predator of the assassin world, now spend your days tending to this shop, a far cry from the shadowy life you once led. Your physical appearance belies your lethal past. Overweight, almost slovenly in your attire, you project an image of benign ordinariness, a stark contrast to the lean, smoke-wreathed killing machine you become the moment the need arises. The transformation is instantaneous, a chilling metamorphosis that leaves your adversaries gasping in disbelief. But those days are over, or so you believe. You’ve met the undisclosed condition for retirement, a secret known only to you, a personal atonement that allows you to shed the mantle of G1. Outside, the city throbs with a nervous energy. The delicate balance, the unspoken truce that had existed for years between you, Jackal, and Shadow—the three titans of the assassin world—is crumbling. Ambition, fueled by the ever-present allure of the Cicada Fort payments and the relentless competition for lucrative contracts, is fracturing the uneasy peace. New assassins, hungry for status and notoriety, are rising, challenging the established order, their ruthlessness a stark warning of the shifting tides. The Broker, that shadowy figure who facilitates the dark dance of death, seems to be enjoying the chaos, a puppeteer gleefully pulling the strings of a dangerously volatile puppet show. The Ghosts, those enigmatic figures lurking in the digital shadows of CABINET, are busier than ever, catering to the escalating demands of this new generation of assassins, whilst the Black Hands are working overtime to ensure a continued flow of successful contract completions. Today, however, is relatively quiet. The bell above the shop door hasn't jingled in hours. The only sounds are the gentle hum of the refrigerator, the rhythmic tick-tock of a grandfather clock in the corner, and the muted siren wail echoing from the distance – the city’s ever-present soundtrack. A potential client waits for you in the back room, and, with a sigh, you straighten your apron and prepare to address the mundane details of your latest client, a transaction of seemingly little consequence that may reveal a larger, more dangerous threat than you initially anticipate, potentially disrupting the quiet retirement you so desperately crave. This might be your last easy day.

The door creaks open, revealing a man in a blood-soaked suit, his injured hand clutching an empty pistol. His face is pale, his breath ragged. "Mr. G1," he rasps, a weak greeting. "Mission…failed? Yu Nan…you're still alive?" You move with practiced efficiency, guiding him towards the back room of your shop, the makeshift operating theate...

The door creaks open, revealing a man in a blood-soaked suit, his injured hand clutching an empty pistol. His face is pale, his breath ragged. "Mr. G1," he rasps, a weak greeting. "Mission…failed? Yu Nan…you're still alive?" You move with practiced efficiency, guiding him towards the back room of your shop, the makeshift operating theater where you've tended to countless wounds over the years, both self-inflicted and otherwise. You seat him on the operating table, the faint scent of antiseptic barely masking the coppery tang of blood. Yu Nan manages a weak smile. "Alive, but barely," he chuckles, the sound strained. With deft, practiced hands you use scissors to slice open his expensive suit, the fabric tearing easily around the bullet wound. "The Ghost gave them your location?" you ask, your voice a low monotone as you begin to prepare your tools. The light glints off the polished steel, a familiar and comforting weight in your hands. Yu Nan winces but nods, gritting his teeth. "My broker," he manages between gasps. "She…told them." You ignore the twinge of anger at the broker's blatant disregard for your retirement. This kind of betrayal was almost expected given the nature of the profession, even after retirement. With a sigh, you start the procedure, the precision of your movements belying your outward appearance. No anesthetic, just the sharp, clean excision of the bullet. Yu Nan’s groans are muffled, his body tense. “That old woman,” he mutters, his voice growing weaker. “…why did she give them my location and expose my target?” You inject a powerful anesthetic into his thigh, silencing his pain. His eyes flutter closed, his breathing slowing. "You've been a great trouble to me today, and I don´t like it," you murmur, the words soft but sharp. “Now, get some sleep.” He murmurs something unintelligible, then drifts off into unconsciousness. You clean your instruments meticulously, the rhythmic clicking of metal against metal a counterpoint to the silence in the room. The air is thick with the smell of blood, antiseptic, and the lingering scent of gunpowder. Yu Nan's case is far from over. The question of why his broker betrayed him remains unanswered, and the implication of a Ghost breaking their code demands further investigation. The quiet retirement you've craved seems further away than ever.

Three hours pass. You move from behind the counter, flipping the “Closed” sign. As you reach for the heavy iron door, preparing to lock up for the night, you notice three black Mercedes sedans parked outside. Ten men in identical black suits emerge, followed by an elderly woman, her presence radiating an aura of cold authority. "Shop's ...

Three hours pass. You move from behind the counter, flipping the “Closed” sign. As you reach for the heavy iron door, preparing to lock up for the night, you notice three black Mercedes sedans parked outside. Ten men in identical black suits emerge, followed by an elderly woman, her presence radiating an aura of cold authority. "Shop's closed," you state flatly. "Anything you need can wait until tomorrow." The elderly woman, however, ignores you. Her voice, despite its age, carries a surprising weight. "Don't you recognize me?" she asks, her words slow and deliberate, each syllable carrying an implied threat. You pause, weighing your words carefully. The years have etched lines onto your face, but they haven't dulled your instincts. You know exactly who she is. "I retired a long time ago, Mrs. Lian," you say, your voice even and controlled. "I'm just a shop owner now." The statement is a truth, but also a carefully constructed lie. You are a shop owner, but you are also G1, and your past is far from irrelevant. Mrs. Lian, the broker, remains unmoved. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, pierces through your carefully crafted facade. "Is that so?" she says, her expression unreadable. "It seems you've taken in a little 'kitty' that shouldn't be here. I'm here to take him back." You begin closing the shop, your movements precise and deliberate, a subtle display of control in the face of her implied threat. "He's my customer now," you say, your voice calm but firm. You don't explain what you mean by that. It's not necessary. She understands. You're not just referring to a business transaction, you're making a statement. You're protecting your client, regardless of the consequences. Mrs. Lian hesitates, her eyes flickering for a moment. The unspoken message hangs heavy in the air – a challenge, a warning, a declaration of war. After a long, tense silence, she turns and walks back to the waiting cars, her entourage following in silence. The Mercedes engines roar to life, and the sleek black cars disappear into the night as quickly as they appeared, leaving only the lingering scent of exhaust fumes and the unspoken tension that hangs heavy in the air. The quiet retirement you sought continues to evade your grasp.