Smoke greeted him at the door, but not the kind that curled from a fire. This was the chemical kind, the kind that sank into lungs and memory, lingering long after it should've faded. The warehouse exhaled it, like the tired, final breath of something far past its prime.
Not Nice moved like a shadow — silent, controlled. Each step deliberate, not hesitant but inevitable, like a preordained truth.
Inside, the air crackled with a quiet tension. It wasn't just another contract. No, something else was here.
Not someone. Some thing.
A chill crawled up his spine, static prickling behind his eyes. His instincts, forged in blood and sharpened by time, flared. Whatever was waiting inside wasn't just another low-level runner or a contract gone sideways. This was bigger. This was wrong.
They were contractors, sure, like him. But different. Sharper. More coordinated.
Not Nice reached for his weapon, the same gun from earlier, steadying his breath.
Across the warehouse, a man mirrored his movements, summoning a crackling sword, electricity dancing along its edge as he focused power into the blade. Another contractor appeared, drawing twin kunai knives before vanishing, blinking in a series of rapid short-range teleports. A third appeared, a gloved hand reaching out before he dissolved into smoke, only to reappear silently behind Not Nice.
The smoky figure lunged, fist cutting through the air.
Time bent.
Everything slowed.
Not a single blow landed.
Not Nice raised his gun, pulling the trigger. But before the shot could find its mark, the kunai-wielding contractor reappeared with a flash, disrupting his aim. The blade sliced through the air, inches from the back of his head. A fatal strike — if not for his time-slow ability, which flared just in time, twisting him out of its path.
Instinct. Nothing but pure, honed instinct.
Not Nice jerked his head aside, narrowly avoiding the ripple of time warping around him. The man with the sword closed the gap, but Not Nice fired first. The contractor swung his blade with surgical precision, cutting through each bullet, one after another, sparks flying like molten metal under a hammer.
The last bullet cracked apart with a sharp sound, scattering fragments across the concrete. The man with the sword didn't flinch. He pressed forward, each step a drumbeat of intent.
Not Nice didn't back away. He sidestepped, dragging the moment into slow motion again, his mind calculating the angles — three targets, each with a different skill, circling like predators. These weren't rookies. They were veterans, tactical, precise.
The smoke-user reappeared beside him, fist cocked back for a strike. Not Nice ducked low, spun on his heel, and slammed his elbow into where the figure's ribs should have been. But it was like hitting mist. The blow passed right through.
He cursed under his breath, spinning as the kunai-wielder blinked in above him, blades aimed downward, too close for comfort.
He twisted, using the momentum to roll, his coat flaring as he fired in a wide arc mid-tumble. Bullets exploded from the barrel, but one grazed the teleporter's leg, forcing him to grunt and stagger. Before he hit the ground, the man vanished, slipping into the shadows.
That was something. They weren't invincible.
"You're good," a voice rang out from behind him, smooth and amused.
Not Nice didn't even look. He fired backward without turning.
The smoke parted, and a laugh followed.
"I hate showoffs," Not Nice muttered under his breath.
Then the room shifted again.
The man with the sword raised his blade high, lightning crackling along its length, and thrust it into the concrete floor. A wave of energy exploded outward, sending cracks through the floor and shattering overhead lightbulbs.
Not Nice's time-slow ability flickered. His internal systems sputtered like a candle fighting the wind. They were disrupting the field — jamming it.
He narrowed his eyes. These weren't just any contractors. These were better than expected. Sharper, more skilled. And with a bounty on their heads? It made him wonder: what had they done?
Not Nice didn't usually take high-profile contracts. He liked staying under the radar, keeping things simple. Safe.
His gaze flicked to the ring on his finger, once faintly glowing red but now cold and empty.
He didn't do this for glory anymore. He didn't do it for the thrill. He just wanted to feel again.
For his wife. For his kids.
For the man he used to be.
The ring had kept the darker parts of him at bay. A reminder of what he was fighting for. But now, in the midst of this fight, that reminder seemed far away.
This contract wasn't like the others. It wasn't just about showing up, taking out a few contractors, and leaving.
No, the moment he stepped through that door, they were waiting for him. Too ready. Too coordinated. They knew he was coming.
Veterans, no doubt. And to be honest… he was out of practice.
Still, something didn't sit right. The pieces fell into place.
They put the contract on themselves.
Classic Contractor Tactic 101: Make yourself the bait. Keep the assassin from reaching the real target.
Someone wanted him dead. Badly enough to burn seasoned assets just to keep him from reaching whoever was behind this.
What was this really about? They knew who he was — Naka, the top contractor in the business. He'd earned his reputation through grit, skill, and a record that no one could match.
So why this? Why now?
One thing was certain: something much bigger was at play.
The kunai-wielder blinked back into view, interrupting his thoughts as he swung the blades toward him. Not Nice activated his time-dilation again, slowing everything down. As the man approached, he fired his gun just as time snapped back to its normal pace. The bullet flew, but the teleporter vanished again, narrowly missing it.
The warehouse grew quiet as the last echoes of battle faded. The air was thick, the faint hum of lights casting long shadows over cracked concrete. Not Nice stood motionless, pulse steady, but his mind raced.
The fight wasn't over. Not by a long shot. The tricks, the bait… this wasn't just another contract. Someone was playing a bigger game, and he had been caught in the middle.
He glanced again at the empty ring on his finger. Once a symbol of his past — his family, the man he was. Now, it was cold. A reminder of what he was trying to hold on to.
But it wasn't enough.
Whoever was behind this knew more about him than they should. They threw everything they had at him, and he hadn't flinched.
Not Nice had survived countless contracts, each one more dangerous than the last. But this one? This was personal.
He stepped forward, gun at the ready, eyes scanning the shadows for movement. He didn't know who was behind it all, but he knew one thing: they wanted him gone.
And they weren't going to get it that easily.
Not Nice tightened his grip on the gun, his resolve hardening. The game had changed. But so had he.
Time to find out who was really pulling the strings. And make them regret ever putting him on the list.