Chapter 4:
Midnight.
The silence inside Magnus's suite was so thick it could smother a breath. Shadows moved like ghosts across the room. Silent footsteps, deliberate and precise, barely distinguishable from the whisper of wind against the windows. Magnus sat in the dark, perfectly still, his back against the wall beside the door. He had not slept. He had been waiting for this. His heart beat slow and steady, the rhythm of a man who had danced with death so many times he knew all its steps.
The lights were off.
Beneath the blankets on the bed, a human-shaped figure lay still, unmoving. A pillow stuffed with clothes. A trick as old as war itself. Magnus had learned it from a man who did not survive to teach anyone else.
Then...
Twenty men entered, dressed in black, faces covered, weapons drawn. Their formation was flawless, every step carefully taken, every breath measured. They moved like a single creature with twenty heads, confident and cold. They thought they were hunters.
But not silent enough.
Suddenly, one man was snatched from behind, his head twisted with a quick, wet crack. The sound barely registered before the body was lowered gently to the floor, as careful as a mother laying down a sleeping child.
No one noticed.
A second man followed. A gloved hand covered his mouth, and a blade kissed his throat open. No scream. Just gurgled breath. More red on the floor, spreading slow and warm. Magnus felt the man's life leave through his palm, a flutter like a bird's wing, then nothing.
Eighteen left.
The shadow in the room moved like a phantom, targeting with ruthless precision. Another throat slit. But this time... mistake.
The man held a gun.
As he fell, his finger spasmed.
BANG.
The gunshot split the silence like thunder, violent and final.
The rest of the squad froze, instincts flaring. Their eyes snapped toward the bed, then toward the darkness where the sound had come from. Fear flickered across their masked faces, the first crack in their armor.
Lights flicked on instantly, and what they saw chilled their blood.
Magnus Reinhart sat calmly on a leather chair, dressed in a midnight-blue tuxedo, face hidden behind his infamous two-toned mask, half joy, half sorrow. He looked like he had been waiting for them all evening, like a host greeting guests at a dinner party. The cigarette smoke from earlier still hung faint in the air, mixing now with the copper scent of blood.
He slowly stood. "Well, gentlemen..." he said coolly, voice echoing off marble. "Shall we begin?"
From his hip, he drew a pistol. Then pulled one clean headshot. A man dropped before the others could even react, his body folding like a puppet with its strings cut.
They fired back but Magnus was already on the move.
He darted through the chaos, weaving between bullets as though gravity bent around him. His shots were precise, merciless, and they took down four more with flawless aim. Each pull of the trigger was a sentence passed. Each falling body was a period at the end.
But then...
Click.
The gun was empty.
No time to reload.
With that, a gunfight had just become a blade dance.
With a flick of his wrist, Magnus hurled three throwing knives. They struck like lightning. Three more enemies down, each blade landing squarely in their skulls with a sound like axes biting wood. Magnus did not watch them fall. He was already moving.
Now down to eleven.
Magnus drew a dagger from his back. He lunged into the fray, grabbing the nearest enemy and using him as a human shield. Bullets tore into the hostage's body, wet and meaty, but Magnus was untouched. He felt the man's weight go limp against him, the last breath hot against his neck. He did not flinch. He had held dying men before.
From the dying man's grip, he snatched his gun and resumed fire.
The remaining enemies didn't last long.
Magnus stood alone once more. His room now a slaughterhouse.
Corpses littered the polished floor. Blood ran in rivulets beneath shattered furniture. Crimson stains marred the walls like a canvas of war. The chandelier swayed slightly, casting moving shadows over the dead, as if the room itself was breathing.
Magnus removed his mask and tucked it under his arm. He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it using the barrel flash of his pistol. The heat kissed his face for a second, familiar and almost tender.
He took a long drag and exhaled slowly.
"Messy," he muttered, surveying the destruction. But his voice held no regret. Only the mild annoyance of a chef who had spilled sauce on a clean counter.
He walked over to the corpses of the three men he'd killed with throwing knives and retrieved each one with casual grace, wiping them clean on his trouser leg.
"Those belong to me," he said quietly.
Then, his gaze shifted to the door.
There were more.
He could feel it. In the way the air pressure changed, in the faint scrape of boots against carpet beyond the walls, in the silence that was not quite silent.
If twenty were just the first wave... how many more waited outside?
He opened his duffel bag and retrieved two smoke pellets, inspecting them closely. They were small, smooth, innocent-looking. Tools of escape. Tools of ghosts.
"Only six left..." he muttered. "Guess two will have to do."
He reloaded his pistol, slotted in fresh magazines, and picked up the second pistol from the ground. With both guns holstered, blades tucked, and mask back on, he approached the door.
Then paused.
He stepped aside and kicked the door open.
Bullets screamed in.
The hallway erupted in gunfire as dozens unleashed hell into the room, thinking they'd hit their target. The sound was deafening, a storm of lead and fire, tearing through the space where Magnus had stood moments before. The walls spat plaster. The air turned white with dust.
But they didn't.
The moment their magazines clicked dry, Magnus rolled from the side, stood tall, and hurled the smoke pellets.
BOOM.
A thick gray cloud swallowed the corridor, bitter and choking.
Through the smoke, he emerged.
Fifty figures waited, thirty men and twenty women masquerading as hotel staff. Now all were armed. All were enemies. Their faces were pale with shock, their weapons trembling. They had expected a man. They had found a monster.
Magnus lifted his guns.
Seventeen rounds each.
Thirty-four bullets.
Thirty-four dead.
Each shot a perfect headshot. A bullet ballet orchestrated by death's composer himself. The bodies fell in patterns, some forward, some back, some spinning as if dancing. Magnus moved through them without expression, without mercy, without pause. His arms ached. His ears rang. But his hands were steady. They always were.
The surviving ten men and six women panicked. They fired blindly into the smoke, screaming. Fear overtook them, the kind that strips training away and leaves only animals clawing for survival.
Magnus dropped his empty guns and drew two daggers.
He closed the gap in seconds.
One had their throat slit, blood spraying in a hot arc across the wallpaper. Another lost a hand before Magnus drove a dagger through their chest, the blade sinking deep and true. Then he spun, using the corpse as another shield, advancing through the corridor like a shadow cloaked in violence. He felt the bullets pass, felt the wind of them, felt nothing else.
When it was done, silence returned.
Only Magnus stood, blood dripping from his gloves, his suit shredded but still sharp. He was breathing hard now, the first sign that he was human. His mask was splattered with red, the joy side smiling wider, the sorrow side weeping darker. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Just a little. Just enough to remind him he was still alive.
He adjusted his tie, wiped his blades on a corpse's jacket, and turned toward the blood-slick marble hallway.
"Now..." he said, his voice low.
"To the receptionist."
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