Phantom

Chapter 3

THE PHANTOM's POV

- Present Time -

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I exhaled, trying not to wince as I brushed the alcohol swab along my skin.

A few minor cuts traced my jaw. Nothing I hadn't dealt with before.

Wrestling was always fun. 

There was nothing more cathartic than beating some loser to pulp.

After applying some cream to the cuts on my face, to help seal them up and quicken the healing process, I washed my hands, scrubbing a bit more along my knuckles to get the blood that had caked around them.

My stomach growled as I stepped out of the bathroom and headed into my room. I needed to eat something, it had been a few hours since I'd inhaled the packet of peanuts I'd had on my shift at the ER.

Yeah, I'm a doctor.

A really young one at that.

Youngest one in all of North America, or so I've been told.

At only twenty-two, people were always dumbstruck when they found out I was working in the medical field as an ER doctor.

To be fair, their shock was reasonable. Given the shortest route to becoming a doctor, the youngest you could be was twenty-six years old.

Thanks to my second job, however, some strings were pulled and I bypassed those rules and got my degree four years earlier.

Sounds illegal? Probably because it is.

I'm good at my job, both of them, actually.

My side hustle?

Hitman-ning.

Yeah, you read that right.

I know, it's almost amusing how contradicting my two professions are.

Saving lives by day, ending them by night.

I'd only killed a total of six people, so far, and been given generous sums of money in exchange.

I'm talking several hundreds of thousands of dollars per hit.

Although my side hustle was not very consistent, it paid real well so I kept it.

Not to mention, I had no escape from it anyway, I was in severe debt both financially and personally to The Company.

Anyway.

As a doctor, I knew how the human body worked. A bit too well. Which made the actual process of killing someone a piece of cake.

I knew where to strike, lethal dosages, pressure points.

I remembered every single kill. Not like I could forget them thanks to the visions that haunted my nightmares.

But, trust me. I'm not all bad. In fact, my hands shake each time I go in for a kill, but my clients didn't need to know that.

I had my reasons for becoming a hitman. I'd promised myself to retire when the time was right.

I glanced over at the file that had been collecting dust on my shelf for the last few days.

Now, I'd never refused a client before, mainly because I'd be killed myself for tarnishing The Company's reputation.

But that file held the fragile details of a nineteen-year-old girl. I'd only read her date of birth and hadn't looked at anything further.

All the other people I'd killed had been rotten old men who quite frankly deserved to be murdered.