I always knew my number would be up—I just didn’t expect it to arrive as a fast-moving piece of lead straight to my chest.
“She’s over there! Surround her!”
Rude.
The round punched through my vest—turns out "bulletproof" is pure marketing fluff—and launched me into a marble pillar with a sickening crunch. I sincerely hoped that crunch was the wall.
Entry wound? Yes. Exit wound? Nope. Internal bleeding? A party. Three minutes to live. Two if I keep breathing this hard.
Behind me, ten tactical boots thundered down the hallway. Law enforcement mixed with corporate mercs. Someone spent an offensive amount of money to put me in the ground, and frankly, I was flattered.
Four rounds left. Amateurs try to kill the whole room. Professionals just pick who dies first while the rest panic.
I burst into the lobby, took a hard right, and ducked behind a column as the marble exploded into dust.
One heartbeat. Two.
A shadow crossed my line of sight. Tap. Headshot.
His buddy rushed past him. Tap. Double stack.
“See?” I whispered to my pistol. “Still got it.”
The remaining mercs froze. Panic is just adorable. I stepped into the open, flashed them a dazzling smile while every rifle swung my way, and bolted for the exit.
Somebody opened fire. I flipped them off over my shoulder. “Eat shit!”
I smashed through the doors, inhaled the sweet night air, took six heroic steps, and my left knee completely disintegrated.
I hit the asphalt face-first.
Rolling onto my back, I stared at the stars. Decades of dodging poison, explosions, and high-stakes betrayals, only to get taken out by a standard-issue bullet? Pedestrian.
Then, real, icy terror hit me.
My apartment.
Not the illegal firearms. Not the blood money under the floorboards.
My visual novels.
Hundreds of them. Otome games. Tragic anime boys with impossibly shiny hair. A horrific digital hoard of pixelated romance. If the feds raided my safehouse, my ruthless legacy wouldn't just die—it would be publicly roasted.
Authorities Recover 400+ Dating Sims from Dead Hitwoman.
"No..." I wheezed, coughing up blood. "Absolute disaster."
I’ve assassinated dictators. I survived a chainsaw fight in a Denny's. I refuse to go down as a horny nerd with terrible taste in fictional princes.
Darkness finally swallowed my vision, and my soul drifted into the void with one last, desperate prayer:
If there is a God... please nuke my hard drive.