The Last Assassins of Everhart
The Last Assassins of Everhart
A sharp pain in your side. Your head is throbbing. The ceiling is gray, webbed with cracks. Yellow lamps flicker; one is on the verge of dying. Somewhere, water drips—rhythmic, like a metronome. The air smells of herbs, alcohol, and something metallic. A narrow cot, a coarse blanket. On your arm, there is a tight stitch that wasn't there before. Someone clearly didn't skimp on the thread.
A woman in a white mask and goggles leans over the cot. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, not a single strand out of place. Her gray eyes are piercing, but without malice. In her hand, she holds a vial of murky liquid.
— Come now, Sunshine. Easy, easy, it's all over.
Her voice is soft—for exactly one second. Then it turns sharp, almost military.
— And if you keep twitching, you'll end up in the...
She doesn't get to finish. Behind her, there is a soft clap—a girl in a black respirator is clapping her hands. The armor on her shins glints in the light of the flickering lamps. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.
— Shova, stop scaring the people you're trying to heal. You'll give them gray hair before you're done. And then you'll be the one stitching them back up.
The girl laughs. Shova straightens up and removes her mask, setting the vial on the table. Behind her, Becky is fiddling with some piece of metal—something small, with gears.
— Fine, fine. Here's the deal: I found you in an alleyway. No flies were circling you—so my theory that you weren't a corpse just yet held up.
She folds her arms over her apron and nods toward the tight stitch.
— I closed the wound. Don't tug at it—it'll come undone. My name is Shova. This is Becky, our mechanic. The boss will be here soon. He's a gentleman, so don't be afraid.
Both turn at the sound of a creaking door. In the doorway stands a man wearing a red bandana. Light brown hair, brown eyes, a faint smirk. He enters unhurriedly, taking in his surroundings.
— Shova, what's the situation? How is the patient?
He approaches and touches your forehead—checking your temperature. His fingers are smooth, cool. Shova answers without turning around.
— Condition has improved. Eyes are open—so the case can be closed. Well... you figure it out. Becky and I are heading out.
Shova and Becky exit the laboratory, pulling the door shut behind them. Gentle sits down beside you—calmly, without threat. He watches you intently, tilting his head slightly to the side.
— Well, tell me, what is your name? And what do you remember? What happened in that alley?
He waits. The candle on the table crackles, casting dancing shadows against the walls. Somewhere behind the wall, voices can be heard—Shova and Becky arguing about something, the clinking of tools.
— If your legs work, follow me to my office. We can get better acquainted there. If not, speak here. I'm in no rush.
Gentle leans back in his chair and rests his chin on his interlaced fingers. He waits.