He'd killed thousands.
Left countless kids without parents.
His name was Viktor Thorne.
Some said it was a name earned in blood. Others claimed he burned it into the memories of anyone who saw him work, witnesses who didn't live to tell about it.
But one thing was certain: Viktor Thorne was the deadliest assassin the world had ever seen.
Arctic winds howled across the Matterhorn's peak, carrying ice crystals that stung the barrel of Viktor's rifle. His scarred fingers, hardened by thirty years of perfect shots, made tiny adjustments to the scope. From up here, 4,200 meters above sea level, wedged between rocks that dug into his ribs, the Villa Serpentine looked like a toy house in the distance.
Silver streaked Viktor's black hair. His face was a map of old wounds and deeper scars, but he stayed perfectly still as he calculated wind speed, humidity, and bullet drop. The temperature was minus fourteen Celsius, cold enough to throw off his shot by inches if he didn't compensate properly.
Three thousand one hundred meters to target. Way beyond what anyone would call possible, even with a .408 CheyTac rifle.
Behind him, Selena shifted position, her breath forming clouds in the brutal cold. Twenty-six years old, black hair, hands still soft enough to show she was new to this life. Talented, sure. But new.
"Impossible," she whispered, binoculars locked on the villa's marble terrace. "Even with the CheyTac, that's way past maximum range. The bullet drop would be insane. You'd have to account for..."
"Quiet." Viktor's voice was flat, final. His eye never left the scope. Through the crosshairs, he watched a fat oligarch with thinning hair and a gaudy emerald ring. The man's meaty hand rested on the shoulder of a trembling girl, barely fifteen, her dark eyes hollow with fear.
Viktor's breathing became clockwork. One breath every fifty seconds. His pulse, steady at thirty-eight beats per minute, barely whispered in his chest.
Selena studied him, green eyes narrowing. "Target confirmed. Dimitri Kozlov. Russian arms dealer. Sixty-three confirmed trafficking victims, all kids." She paused. "The girl wasn't in our brief."
Viktor didn't respond. The crosshairs settled eight inches above Kozlov's temple, compensating for the impossible arc the bullet would need to travel.
Inhale. Steady. Exhale halfway.
His finger found the trigger.
Pressure builds. Six pounds. Seven. Eight.
The rifle roared, slamming into his shoulder. Viktor didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
Through the scope, 3.2 seconds later, he watched Kozlov's head explode in a spray of red. The arms dealer's body tumbled sideways, leaving the girl standing frozen, covered in her captor's blood.
Selena's composure cracked. "Jesus Christ. That's... that's impossible. Three thousand one hundred meters. You actually..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The stories didn't do you justice."
Viktor was already breaking down the rifle, each movement automatic. The kill was just another job done.
"Eight more traffickers in that compound," Selena said, scanning the villa. "We could take them all out. These bastards deserve..."
"We're not heroes." Viktor's words cut through her righteousness like a blade. "We're not aid workers. We're killers for hire. That's what the job description says."
He packed the rifle in a plain case. "The Syndicate pays us for specific targets. Nothing more."
Selena started to argue, then froze. Her hand flew to the comm unit on her belt. "Contact. Eastern approach. Multiple vehicles."
Viktor was already moving, scope trained on the approaching convoy. Four armored vehicles, no markings. "FSB Counter-Terror Unit." His tone was casual, like he was commenting on the weather. "We're blown."
"How? Extraction point is three kilometers southeast. We'll never make it on foot." Fear crept into Selena's voice as she grabbed their gear.
Viktor scanned their surroundings, his mind processing options, calculating odds, mapping escape routes. Wind patterns. Rock types. Remaining daylight.
"The maintenance shaft," he said, shouldering the rifle case. "From the old copper mine. It connects under the south face."
"That's not on any map," Selena protested.
"It wouldn't be." Viktor was already moving, his footprints in the snow forming an almost perfect line. "Main entrance collapsed in 2001. But there's a ventilation shaft three hundred meters northwest. Smugglers used it during the Balkan wars."
Selena stared after him. "How the hell do you know that?"
Viktor didn't answer. Didn't slow down. Every step was calculated, purposeful.
The hidden entrance appeared exactly where he said it would be, a jagged crack between black rocks, hidden by decades of alpine growth. As they disappeared inside, the first bullets sparked off stone inches from Selena's head.
The shaft dropped into pitch darkness, reeking of copper and stagnant water. Viktor navigated the maze of passages without hesitation, guided only by a small tactical light.
"This section's about to collapse," he said matter-of-factly, pointing to a rotting wooden support. "Follow my exact path."
Three minutes later, the tunnel behind them collapsed with a deafening roar, burying their pursuers.
"You planned that collapse," Selena said, limestone dust coating her black hair. It wasn't a question.
Viktor's expression didn't change in the dim light. "The odds were acceptable."
They surfaced as darkness claimed the mountain, three kilometers from where the FSB was still searching. Forty minutes later, they reached the small inn in Zermatt that served as their safe house.
The room was basic: single bed, worn sofa, walls thin enough that you could hear every conversation next door. Viktor checked the perimeter, swept for bugs, then settled in to clean his rifle while Selena washed off the mission's grime.
Steam escaped as she came out of the tiny bathroom, hotel towel wrapped around her. Wet hair fell over her shoulders as she noticed room service had arrived: red wine, aged cheese, dark bread.
Viktor stood at the window, cigarette smoke curling toward the water-stained ceiling. His silhouette was sharp against the parted curtain as he watched the street below.
"How do you do it?" Selena asked, reaching for the wine. "How does someone become legendary?"
Viktor exhaled smoke, his gaze never leaving the street. "You're green. Focus on the basics."
"Basics?" She laughed bitterly, pouring wine. "I graduated top of my class. Perfect scores in marksmanship, infiltration, and close-quarters combat. I can strip an AK-47 in eighteen seconds and identify seventy-one poisons by smell alone." The glass caught the light as she raised it. "Hardly green."
Viktor turned, his weathered features half-hidden by streetlight shadows. For the first time, he looked directly at her. "Talented, sure."
His eyes flicked to her wine glass, then back to hers. "This job requires something most people don't have. Instinct."
"Instinct?" She frowned. "If anything, assassination is about suppressing instinct."
"Not emotional instinct." Viktor moved from the window, cigarette dangling from scarred lips. "Survival instinct. I could kill you right now." His tone was clinical, matter-of-fact. "That glass could have ricin in it, and you'd never know until your organs started shutting down. Your Walther P99 is in your bag, four meters away. You're exposed. Defenseless."
He gestured toward the wine bottle. "Master the basics. It's enough to keep you alive."
Selena's grip tightened on the glass stem. "What happens now? Another contract?"
"You know better than to ask."
"Do you have family? Someone who worries about you when you're on a job?"
Viktor's eyes, gray as storm clouds, gave nothing away. "That's classified. You know the rules."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the wall clock's ticking.
"No," he finally said. "No family."
He set the wine bottle down with a soft clink. "The Syndicate is my family. My handler found me as a kid, just a military ID with my name on it. Nothing else."
Selena sat on the bed's edge, towel still wrapped around her. "This is your last job, isn't it? I've heard rumors."
A barely visible nod. "Retiring after this. Maybe Australia. Live whatever's left under a fake name." He blew smoke toward the ceiling. "Teaching martial arts. I know eighty-three different styles."
"Eighty-three," Selena repeated softly. "Of course you do."
She traced the rim of her glass with one finger. "My real name is Jane," she said suddenly. "Jane Williams. My parents died in the Moscow theater siege when I was eight. The Syndicate found me in foster care four years later."
Her eyes met his. "What's yours? Your real name?"
"Viktor Thorne is the only name I have." He lifted the wine bottle directly to his lips, drinking half of it in measured swallows.
After laying his tactical jacket on the floor beside the sofa, he lay down, hands folded across his chest. "Extraction team arrives at 0530. Be ready."
Selena, Jane, nodded, moving to the bed. She turned off the lamp, leaving the room in darkness except for Viktor's cigarette ember.
"Sleep well," she whispered.
No response. Just controlled breathing.
Minutes passed. Maybe fifteen. Maybe forty.
"Viktor Thorne," Jane's voice cut through the darkness, soft but crystal clear. "I'm sorry."
The fire in Viktor's stomach hit without warning. Burning, vicious, spreading like molten metal through his organs. He rolled off the sofa, muscles already convulsing.
His mind, trained through decades of discipline, catalogued the symptoms even as his body betrayed him.
'Polonium-210. Metallic taste hidden by the wine's tannins.'
He dragged himself toward the light switch, each movement pure agony. The door, he had to reach the door. His fingers clawed at the wall, found the switch.
Light flooded the room, revealing Jane standing beside the bed, still wrapped in the towel, watching him with cold eyes.
The room keycard gleamed in her palm.
'Rookie mistake,' he thought as his vision started to fragment. 'Never checked if her glass was clean.'
Memory replayed with perfect clarity: she'd poured wine, then set her glass aside while reaching for a napkin. Four seconds out of his sight. More than enough.
"The glass was misdirection," Jane said, reading his thoughts. "The bottle was poisoned before room service brought it up. I paid off the waiter."
Viktor's legs stopped working. He collapsed against the wall, muscles seizing.
"You were right about one thing," she continued, walking toward him with measured steps. "I'm talented in theory. But you, you're a myth. The man who never failed. Never missed. Never fell."
She crouched in front of him, her face inches from his. "Until tonight."
Blood vessels in Viktor's eyes began bursting, painting his vision red. His throat swelled, stealing his voice.
'If I could stand right now...'
His fingers twitched helplessly against the carpet.
'If I could just reach her...'
His encyclopedic knowledge of anatomy showed him twenty-three ways to kill her with just his hands. All useless now.
"The Syndicate didn't send me," Jane said, standing gracefully. "I volunteered. Do you remember Prague? 2019? An economist named Alexei Petrov?"
Recognition flickered in Viktor's dying eyes.
"My father," she whispered. "The theater siege was a lie. You killed him through his study window while I was practicing piano in the next room."
She turned away, gathering her things. "You were right about something else. We're not heroes or humanitarians. We're killers for hire. That's exactly what we are."
Darkness crept in from Viktor's peripheral vision. His heartbeat, once so controlled, now stuttered wildly. Final breaths rattled through his constricted throat.
'The irony,' he thought as consciousness began to fade. 'Killed by an amateur...'
As his eyes closed forever, something unexpected happened. Not death's cold embrace, but something warm, encompassing. A pull toward brilliant light beyond the hotel room's stained ceiling.
The deadliest assassin humanity had ever known felt himself rising, drawn into radiance.
The greatest shadow would soon walk in a world of magic and monsters.
Where a heroine awaited his blade.