Silent Shadows

Picture this. You're a ghost in a world that forgot how to see shadows. No name.

No past. Just a blade and a list of names that keeps getting longer.

You move through crowds like smoke, closer than a whisper, colder than the space between heartbeats.

Every target thinks they're untouchable until the moment they're not. The thing about

being an assassin isn't the killing. It's the patience. Waiting days in the rain.

Memorizing routines. Becoming invisible while standing right there. You don't exist

until you need to. And by then, it's already too late. The job's done before

they even know you were there. Clean. Silent. Gone.