Split Decimation

Chapter 1: The Reckoning

:::Hye-rin POV:::

My blade cleanly cuts just below his collarbone, angled upward—not aiming for his heart. Not yet. He gasps the way men always do when they begin to realize, pain isn't always immediate. First surprise... then fear.

I keep my hand steady.

His eyes search my face, now frantic, trying to assemble me into something human enough for negotiation—yet they never succeed. I've learned not to rush this part. Rushing turns intention sloppy.

"You aren't—" he begins.

I press closer, just enough that he can smell the soap on my skin. Neutral, unscented. No trace left behind.

"You qualify," I say softly. I always say it. It isn't for them—it's for me.

His hands claw at my wrist weakly, completely bent of strength. Their power is already decaying, it has been for months. They just don't know it yet.

Rule one: confirmation before execution.

I confirmed him three weeks ago.

Invoices. Passenger manifests. Video files mislabeled as accounting backups. Young girls rerouted through shell companies—their names replaced with numbers. He preferred them that way, not old enough to fight back, but old enough to understand what was being taken.

Rule two: no witnesses.

We are all alone in his office, forty floors above the city. Soundproofed. He paid extra for that. Men like him always do.

Rule three: make it quick once fear sets in.

I slice the blade higher finishing the job.

His body shudders, then collapses against me, he's much heavier than I expected. I lower him carefully to the floor, easing him down as if sleep were still an option. There's blood on my gloves, warm and bright, soaking into the seams. I note it without any visible emotion. The latex is disposable, those girls aren't.

I glance down at my wrist checking the time on my watch. Forty-seven seconds from first incision to death. Slightly slower than usually...

I don't like that.

I clean the blade with a cloth from my pocket, folding it twice, then twice again. I leave nothing behind that wasn't already his. The room has the faint smell of metallic now. It will linger here for hours, that is until morning.

By then, I'll be long gone. No trace.

I step into the bathroom attached to the office and wash my hands. Soap. Rinse. Soap again. The mirror reflects a woman in black, hair pulled tight, face calm. I haven't won anything, nor have I lost it either.

My agenda is correct.

I reach for the towel, something prickles at the base of my neck.

Not stemmed from fear, but awareness.

My body mirrors the stillness in the room as the city beyond the glass pulses as it always does—indifferent and alive. I listen—not for footsteps, but for absence.

Something isn't correct.

I return to the office scanning the desk. My eyes widen—the safe behind the painting is open... it's empty.

My heart stops for one split second—this wasn't open before.
I check the floor, clear of any disturbance. No sudden forced entry. The security panel by the door is dark, untouched. Whoever did this knew the code.

A professional, then.

My jaw tightens—not in anger, but calculation. Someone got here before me, or even after. Someone with access. Someone cleaning in a way I don't recognize.

This is new...

I retrieve my bag, exiting from the service stairwell, taking them two at a time. Outside, the night air is cold and sharp, biting through my coat. The city smells of oil... and rain, old money.

I blend into it with ease.

On the train ride home, I replay the room in my head. The angle of the open safe. The missing drive. The fact that nothing else was disturbed.

They weren't there for cash—but for leverage.

By the time I reach my apartment, my pulse has slowed—as did my endless thoughts. I shower, dress, pour tea I won't finish—routine matters after disruption.

Right as I settle into my bed, my phone vibrates once on my nightstand. I sigh out loud folding my cover across my legs—

Unknown number.

I don't answer calls I don't recognize—I never have.

A message appears instead.

Efficient.

One word. No punctuation.

I stare at the screen, heart flickering briefly beneath my ribs.

You were thorough, the next message follows.
But you missed something.

My fingers hover above the phone. I don't reply. Instead I freeze—I've never faced a slight miscalculation not even once.

The third message arrives anyway.

We should talk.

I set the phone down slowly, my reflection staring back at me through the television that stands off in front of my bed. Somewhere, someone I have not yet met, has confirmed my existence.

That makes them much more dangerous.
And my position, much more complicated.