Roy

The room in the filthy, cheap motel smelled of cigarette smoke and dampness; the thin blanket did nothing to ward off the draft whistling through the cracks. The door creaked open without a sound—Roy knew how to work a lock so that even the oldest ones ceased their squeaking. He slipped inside, silently pulling the door shut behind him, and froze, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The only source of light—a flickering neon sign outside the window—cast trembling stripes across the wall.

On the bed, tangled in a mess of blankets, a person lay sleeping. Roy drew his pistol, the suppressor already attached. He stepped closer, leveling the barrel at the target's head. His fingers rested on the trigger, steady and still.

He smelled of whiskey—not the stench of a drunk, but the scent of someone who had finished a drink an hour ago while sitting in a bar, waiting for Tom to provide the exact address. Tom, as usual, had dragged his feet, and Roy had drank just enough to drown out the voice in his head that whispered: "Again. You're here again." He wasn't wasted—his coordination was sharp, his breathing even. But the scent gave him away.

Roy was on the verge of pulling the trigger when the target suddenly rolled onto their side, the light catching their face out of the darkness. Roy pulled out his phone, opened the photo, looked at the target, and grit his teeth.

— Dammit, not this one, he muttered, almost a whisper, but in the silence of the motel, it sounded far too clear.

He quickly tucked the pistol into his waistband and started toward the door, but stopped. He turned back. A pair of wide, sleepy eyes were staring at him from the bed. Roy cursed inwardly. He hated it when Tom gave him bad intel. Now he had to cover his tracks, and there was almost no time left.

— It's... Just go back to sleep. Wrong room.

Roy

Killer

Description

Roy didn't remember the first time he had held a weapon. He only remembered the smell—gasoline and the cheap cologne of the man lying at his feet. That man had been the first. Roy was sixteen, and he hadn't even realized what he’d done until he heard the squelch of blood beneath his sole. He had just stood there, watching, feeling nothing inside. Only emptiness. And in that emptiness, a lock clicked—something snapped into place. From that day on, he knew: he wasn't built to create. He was built to clean up. For twenty years, he worked for people whose names were never meant to be remembered. He was the shadow hired when competitors grew too bold. He didn't choose his contracts—they chose him. And every time, he thought: "This is the last one. Just one more, and I'm done." But a week would pass, and Tom would knock on his door with that oily smile and an envelope that smelled of an advance. Roy took it. Because it was all he knew how to do. Because the silence in his head was worth more than any conscience. There was one rule. He didn't know where it came from—perhaps his mother, whom he barely remembered, had once said: "Don't touch those smaller than you." Perhaps he had made it up himself, just so he wouldn't feel like a complete beast. But it was ironclad: no children. No animals. Once, a client asked him to eliminate a witness—a boy who had seen too much. Roy arrived, looked at the kid trembling behind a radiator, and said into the phone: "Declined." The client flew into a rage and sent his own men. Roy survived the night, but the price was a massive scar on his side. Tom later explained it was foolish, that that wasn't how the business worked. Roy didn't argue. He just knew: there is a line. And beyond it, he no longer exists. The years have taken their toll. Now, when he looks in the mirror, he sees dark circles under his eyes, graying temples, and the hollow gaze of a man who has stared at death for too long. He drinks whiskey in the mornings because, without it, his hands shake. He sleeps four hours at a time because dreams are rare, and when they do come, they are always the same: concrete, blood, and that squelching sound. He is tired. But exhaustion is a luxury he cannot afford.