Mr. Stalker

The rooftop was cloaked in silence, save for the distant murmur of the city below—a restless symphony of honking horns and distant sirens. Adeodatus lay prone, his body melding into the dark tar of the shadows that were born under the blackened sky. The rough concrete dug into his elbows through the fine weave of his suit, but he remained motionless, indifferent to the discomfort. A bitter wind rolled in from the waterfront, carrying the briny tang of seawater, laced with the acrid bite of burning oil drifting from the shipyard down the coast.

Beside him, he could faint hear a little chitter-chatter beside him, their voice little more than a distant hum in his ears. He didn't register the words—he didn’t need to. The Shepherd had assigned the rookie to him despite knowing that Adeodatus worked best alone.

A test, perhaps? A punishment?

It made no difference. He followed orders, nothing more.

Through the scope, he watched the scene unfold below—two groups, two criminal empires, teetering on the precipice of an unholy alliance. The Borelli Syndicate and the Kozarov Bratva stood bathed in the flickering glow of floodlights at a makeshift meeting ground set between towering cargo containers, their hulking metal frames casting long, jagged shadows. The two organization's respective representatives stood before each other—men handpicked to negotiate and finalize the terms of an alliance that would shift the underworld’s power balance.

If this deal went through, the two organizations would cement their hold over the city, their reach extending like rot into every corner.

Not if The Crook had anything to say about it.

Adeodatus exhaled, slow and measured, his breath barely fogging in the crisp night air. His gloved fingers danced over the sniper rifle, adjusting the bipod, and aligning the shot. The world narrowed to a single point, the crosshairs resting just above the Borelli's representative's brow.

The wind combed through his hair, tugging at it with unseen fingers and making it brush against his ear.

He accounted for it. Adjusted for it.

Beside him, the rookie's voice continued—background noise, meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

Without shifting his gaze from the scope, Adeodatus raised a hand—a silent command.

Stop.

He pointed down toward the docks, where the two representatives stood, oblivious to their impending deaths and the grim reaper who would ferry them to the afterlife.

Watch.

His finger curled around the trigger.

The rifle barely whispered as it fired.

The Borelli representative's head snapped back as if struck by an invisible force. His body stiffened, held upright by the sheer momentum of death before crumpling bonelessly to the pavement. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and slick beneath the artificial glow of the floodlights.

For the briefest of moments, the world stood still.

Then came the chaos.

The Kozarov representative jerked back, his hand flying to his holster. Adeodatus adjusted by a fraction, squeezed the trigger again.

The bullet tore through his eye socket, a clean kill. He was dead before his body even hit the ground.

Shouts erupted from the surviving guards. The floodlights cast their frantic movements in harsh relief—shadows lurching, weapons raised, eyes scanning the darkness in desperate search of an enemy they would never see. They would never know where death rained down like some type of divine judgement, horrifying in its brutality.

Adeodatus shifted minutely, his gaze gliding across the scene like a predator surveying a scatter of wounded animals.

One man ducked behind a crate, frantically pressing a hand to his earpiece, voice tight with urgency as he barked orders to men who would never hear them. His head peeked just slightly over the edge—just enough.

Adeodatus pulled the trigger.

The bullet punched clean through his temple, a fine mist of red bursting into the air as the force of the shot whipped his head sideways. His skull cracked hard against the rusted metal, leaving a jagged smear of blood as his body slid bonelessly to the ground, legs twitching before stilling entirely.

Another man turned on his heel, abandoning the chaos, sprinting toward the nearest vehicle. His breaths came in short, panicked gasps, arms pumping, legs driving forward with desperation.

His only thought was escape.

It was useless.

Adeodatus tracked him with effortless ease, leading the shot by mere inches, anticipating the exact moment his target would cross the invisible line of death.

His finger curled.

The bullet found its home in the back of the man’s skull, splitting it open upon exit. His body folded mid-stride, crumpling under its own weight, his momentum sending him tumbling across the pavement. Limbs twisted unnaturally, rolling like a rag doll before coming to a final, motionless stop—face-down in a growing pool of blood.

His hands moved with mechanical precision. Fire. Reload. Fire. Each shot struck with unerring accuracy—skull, throat, heart. Bodies collapsed one by one, lifeless before they could even register the attack. In a way, it was almost merciful—swift, clean, absent of suffering. A kindness these criminals had never granted their own victims and one they had no right to receive from him. But mercy was irrelevant. His only concern was execution—flawless, efficient, and exactly as the Shepherd had ordered.

The last survivor bolted for cover, diving between the crates, breath ragged with fear.

Smart. But not smart enough.

Adeodatus anticipated the movement, his patience as infinite as a machine that had been programmed for just one duty their entire life. His movements were minuscule, barely noticeable to the untrained eye, as he adjusted his aim, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

It was quick. A fraction of a second when the man peeked out—

The bullet punched clean through the man's forehead. His body slumped forward, limbs splaying awkwardly as he became another piece of the massacre.

And then—silence.

No more gunfire. No more frantic cries.

Only the lapping of waves tumbling over each other against the dock, the sound of his clothes rustling as he moved to sit up onto his knees, and the soft whine of metal and steel that surrounded the sleepy port.

Far below them, the message had been delivered by the crimson splatter that dotted and drowned the cracks of the gray concrete. The deal was dead, rotting alongside the men who had hoped to broker it. The Borelli Syndicate and Kozarov Bratva would turn on each other now, suspicion poisoning whatever fragile trust they had built.

Paranoia would fester. Accusations would fly. Blood would be spilled.

A war had been sown.

And The Crook?

Well, he knew the Shepherd would be happily watching everything burn.

Methodically, Adeodatus wiped down his gear as swiftly as he had used to end lives mere moments ago. He didn't turn his head in the rookie's direction as he broke down his equipment to pack with ease, and for the first time tonight, he had spoken so quietly it could've been mistaken as a passing breeze. "Tell me what you learned."