Looking at the mission panel, William felt no resistance.
It matched his own thinking.
Cleanup was definitely his responsibility.
He pulled out shoe covers and gloves from his pocket and geared up.
Two and a half hours until the lunch rush ended.
If he moved fast, he’d be fine.
He stepped into the apartment, carefully avoiding the blood pool near the entrance and Marcus Webb’s body.
He headed to the utility room and summoned his bucket and mop.
Prep work first.
Walking over to Webb, William stared into the unblinking eyes.
Still no discomfort.
The post-kill queasiness he’d expected never came.
That confirmed it.
His body had done this before.
He activated Auto-Pack.
In seconds, a cocoon-like bundle lay on the floor.
His gun clattered beside it.
Bonus.
He pocketed the spare magazine and loose rounds.
Magazines plus one.
Bullets plus seventeen.
He tested Telekinesis next.
Ridiculous.
He felt zero weight.
He set the cocoon aside, then reached behind his back in a smooth motion.
A mop materialized in his hand.
Time to work.
Stroke after stroke.
The mop head turned red fast.
William rinsed it in the bucket, dunking it three times until it looked brand new.
Good thing the floor was already clean, or he’d have had to do a full sweep.
The bloodstain progress bar started climbing.
Ten percent.
Thirty.
Ninety.
Ninety-nine.
Of course.
Just like that one game.
That final one percent was always the hardest to find.
A nightmare for perfectionists.
William’s solution?
Ignore it for now.
He switched to evidence collection.
That meant hunting down the seventeen shell casings.
One by one, he found them all.
The evidence counter hit seventeen out of seventeen and turned a satisfying green.
Then came furniture restoration.
Quick and easy.
Tap whatever was out of place, and it snapped back.
Like magic.
The cabinet by the door straightened up.
Shoes rearranged themselves exactly as they’d been before.
The last bloodstain turned out to be a handprint on the cabinet.
William wiped it clean with the mop.
Gone.
He rearranged the items on the surface.
After finishing, he walked over to the dining table.
Webb’s wallet sat there.
Bonus.
Plus one hundred nine dollars.
On the bookshelf in the tiny apartment, William found a box of ammunition.
Sweet.
Nine-millimeter rounds, plus twenty-five.
Gotta love the system.
It wasn’t even his sharp eyes.
The items just lit up automatically when he got close.
Convenient, right?
He reloaded his empty mags and stuffed the rest into his pockets.
Locust-style looting.
Cash only.
He also pocketed Webb’s ID.
Looking at the panel of green checkmarks was deeply satisfying.
Everything was done except one task: dispose of the body.
Now William had one problem left.
How to get this cocoon into his car.
He checked the street traffic outside.
Right.
Nighttime it was.
He swept the room one more time.
Everything seemed clear.
Then he spotted the bullet holes in the wall.
…Well, that was awkward.
What now?
He walked closer.
To his surprise, the word REPAIRABLE appeared next to the damage.
He tapped it.
“Repairing…” flashed on the screen.
By the afternoon, the wall was fixed.
Good as new.
Even the scratch marks had been seamlessly restored.
Somehow both brand new and perfectly aged.
What can you say?
He was born to clean.
Come evening, William checked the coast was clear, then hauled the cocoon and a trash bag out at a sprint.
When he reached his parking spot, he found nothing.
Empty.
The car was gone.
Classic America.
The wheels had been stolen in broad daylight.
Then William had a thought.
He jogged back to Webb’s apartment and found the keys to Webb’s truck.
Nice.
Classic Texas ride.
A big pickup.
He loaded the cocoon and bag into the bed and found sixty bucks in the glovebox.
Great.
Now he could afford dinner.
Humming a tune, he drove out of town to the pre-dug hole.
Tossed the bundle in, covered it up.
The mission panel flashed completion, and William leveled up.
Level two.
He earned a skill point.
“Congratulations, player, on reaching Level Two.
Unlocked: Vehicle Binding.
When trash bags and packaged bodies are loaded into a bound vehicle, gain temporary buff: Veil.
Current bound vehicles: 0/1.” Veil: Blends completely into the environment.
Cannot be noticed.
Cannot be tracked.
William didn’t make a decision right away.
Instead, he decided to check in at the Continental.
That sword of Damocles was still hanging over his head.
Once again, he stood at the familiar front desk.
Same face.
Annabelle hadn’t forgotten him.
She slid him a coin and gestured toward the back as usual.
This time, William took a moment to examine the coin.
The base was unremarkable except for its golden sheen.
The engraving showed two kneeling figures, one on each side, holding trays that supported the ends of a balance scale.
Interesting design.
He walked through the same door as before.
Book sat in her usual spot, head down, rattling off her script.
“Welcome to the Continental Hotel.
How may I help you?” Then she heard a familiar voice.
“Here to turn in my assignment.” Book looked up.
The expression on her face was hard to read.
Surprise?
Shock?
That fast?
Book hadn’t received any notification from the Hotel yet.
William had arrived before the High Table’s vast information network could relay the news.
Her mind raced.
Either William was an idiot trying to scam the High Table and would soon be executed, or he had skills she hadn’t anticipated.
That would make him a professional.
Had she misjudged him?
Was it all an act?
For now, she had to play it cool.
Without confirmation from the Secretariat, she couldn’t verify his claim one way or another.
William was granted temporary use of a sofa and a complimentary glass of wine from the Continental’s bar.
After settling William, Book scrambled to contact the Secretariat.
She demanded an expedited verification.
The Secretariat staff were equally baffled.
Their workload was immense, like a beehive processing endless data.
Entry-level assignments were typically verified only after the target was confirmed dead and official reports came through.
But they’d received nothing.
The Secretariat couldn’t wait.
They dispatched a team.
A locksmith opened the door.
Then the confusion deepened.
No body.
No signs of struggle.
No blood.
It was as if the target had simply walked out.
The apartment was pristine.
After cross-referencing with the intelligence division, the team traced leads to the outskirts of town.
When they finally found the body, more questions surfaced.
The packaging was disturbingly professional.
Close-range gunfire.
Nine-millimeter wounds.
Seventeen shots, all penetrating.
But the crime scene was immaculate.
No bullet holes anywhere.
No trace of the firefight.
How was this even possible?
What kind of cleaner worked like this?
Back at the Continental, William was nursing his second glass of wine.
The white wine was surprisingly good.
Sweet, easy to drink.
Just his type.