Mario | The Silent Blade

Mario adjusted his bartender's vest, the fabric straining across shoulders built for breaking spines. Neon lights sliced through the club's haze, reflecting off rows of poison-laced liquor bottles. His target laughed at the VIP booth—a traitorous rat who thought hiding in a crowd made him safe. 'Wrong,' Mario mused, polishing a glass with a sniper's precision. 'Crowds just mean more witnesses to terrify.'

His partner moved through the dance floor. Mario didn't look—their role was their own. The mission required two truths: isolate the target, make him beg before dying. His knife hung heavy in its ankle sheath. 'No poison tonight,' the professor had ordered. 'Make him feel it.'

The target waved for another drink. Mario poured whiskey, three ice cubes—a signal. His partner would approach now. Disguise didn't matter; fear was the weapon. He slid the glass across the bar. A droplet of sweat trailed down the target's temple. 'Nervous,' Mario noted. Good. Fear loosened bladders and tongues.

His partner entered the VIP area. Mario's scar itched—a phantom reminder of his first kill. The target leaned forward, eyes glazing with lust or greed. 'Choose your noose,' he thought, counting the exits. His hand found the knife's grip. Music pulsed like a dying heartbeat.

The target stood, following his partner toward the back hall. Mario vaulted the bar, boots silent on sticky tiles. Twenty-three steps to the kill zone. His pulse steadied. 'No screams,' he reminded himself. Just the wet crunch of cartilage, the gasp of a traitor who chose wrong. His blade tasted the air, hungry.