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Chapter 12 Assassination
In my previous life, I'd done plenty of ridiculous things. I once put salt in milk and served it to guests just to watch their faces. Another time, I glued my teacher's chair to the floor. Looking back, most of my "achievements" probably counted as crimes against common sense.
But assassination? Assassination sat proudly at the top of the bucket list. If I ever made it home, I was writing that one down. *Successfully assassinated a powerful political figure.* Not many people get to check that box.
Jokes aside, this was probably the most dangerous thing I'd ever done. One mistake, and both Ira and I were dead.
We stepped into Flex's office in total silence. The room was enormous — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city, holographic screens floating around a massive desk, expensive art on every wall. The kind of office that screamed *I am rich and important.*
Oddly, no visible security. No guards, no automated defa enses, nothing. Almost insulting. Then again, maybe .hey were thinking;the same way I would've — if someone managed to infiltrate one of the most secure buildings on the planet and make it to floor fifty undetected, a couple of guards weren't going to change the outcome.
I glanced at Ira. His ability had carried this entire mission. Without him, we wouldn't have gotten anywhere close. If he'd been born in one of those anime worlds where friendship solves everything, people would've beaten him out of pure jealousy.
Our target was easy to spot. Flex sat behin,d his desk, typing across multiple holographic screens — a tall man in an expensive suit. His bodyguard lounged on a nearby couch, looking bored out of his mind.
Flex, unfortunately, seemed determined to fix that.
"I'm telling you," Flex said, frustration creeping into his voice, "Amro may be the strongest warrior alive, but he has no idea how to govern."
"Hmm," the bodyguard said, not really listening.
"He should have approved the proposal."
"Hmm."
"The awakened shouldn't be restricted by ordinary people."
"Hmm."
Flex slammed his hand on the desk. "The bill would've solved everything!"
"Hmm." The bodyguard didn't even look up.
I almost felt bad for, Flex. Almost — then I remembered the bill was basically legalized murder, and my sympathy evaporated.
"Do you know why the awakened should rule?" Flex asked.
The bodyguard sighed. "Because we're stronger?"
Flex smiled. "No. Because history proves power always rules. The only difference is whether people are honest about it. Kings ruled because they had armies. Governments rule because they control weapons." He spread his arms. "Awakeners are simply the next step."
The bodyguard finally looked up. "And the non-awakened?"
Flex shrugged. "History rarely asks weak people for permission."
While they talked, I scanned the room — no visible weapons, no hidden turrets, no odd energy signatures. Still, I wasn't taking chances. I moved to the wall and activated Transfiguration, brushing my fingers against the surface and letting its structure flow into my awareness. Steel, concrete, reinforcement mesh, layer by layer.
Then — something unexpected. A hollow space.
My eyes narrowed. A hidden room, concealed behind one section of the wall. And it sat directly behind Flex's desk.
A secret escape route. That changed everything — if the attack failed, Flex could vanish before we got a second shot.
I told Ira quietly. His expression hardened, and we adjusted the plan on the spot. Flex had to go down first, no hesitation, no mistakes. Ira would strike him; I'd keep the bodyguard busy.
Simple. Dangerous. Necessary.
I took position. The bodyguard stayed sprawled on the couch, Flex kept typing, neither of them noticed the two invisible assassins a few meters away. I activated Transfiguration — skin, bones, muscle, all of it shifting into a specialized metallic structure built to absorb and discharge electrical energy. The perfect countermeasure against a speedster.
At least in theory. I hoped reality agreed.
Ira slowly raised a black dagger coated in poison.
Then Flex stopped typing.
My heart skipped. He turned his head slowly, gaze sweeping the room. For one horrible second I thought he'd sensed us.
"Do you feel that?" he asked.
The ,speedster looked around lazily. "Feel what?"
"Never mind." Flex went back to work.
I let out the breath I'd been holding.
The moment arrived. Three. Two. One.
Move.
Ira lunged, the dagger flashing toward Flex's throat. At the last second, instinct saved him — Flex twisted violently, and the blade missed his n,eck, slicing across his cheek instead. Blood sprayed.
At the same time, Ira's concealment broke. We became visible.
Flex's eyes went wide. The bodyguard exploded off the couch. "No!" The word came out like a gunshot.
Then he disappeared.
Not moved. Not blurred. Disappeared. One moment he was beside the couch — the next, pain exploded in my ribs. I hadn't even seen him move. A second impact slammed into my jaw, then my stomach, then my shoulder. I stumbled back.
What the hell?
He wasn't just fast. He was absurdly fast. The room blurred, and every time I tried to focus on him, another punch landed somewhere else, like getting hit by a dozen opponents at once. Blood filled my mouth. I spat it onto the floor.
He flickered into view for a half-second — young, calm, almost bored — then vanished again. A fist crashed into my face. Something cracked.
The next punch never landed.
Electricity erupted from my body, the stored charge discharging automatically, blue arcs ripping across the room. The speedster got launched backwa,rd, surprise flashihurtscross his face for the first time.
Good. The countermeasure worked.
Unfortunately, not enough. He rolled across the floor and stood back up, completely conscious.
My smile dropped. That should've hurt a lot more.
Meanwhile, Flex staggered backward, pressing a hand to the wound on his face — the poison was in his system, but the bastard was tougher than expected. He was already running for the hidden room.
"Ira!" I shouted.
"I know!" He took off after him.
The speedster stepped between us. "You aren't going anywhere."
Then he moved again — faster this time, much faster. A barrand age of punches hammered into me, face, chest, stomach, ribs, back. I couldn't counter, couldn't predict, couldn't even properly defend. For the first time since stepping into this building, I felt completely outmatched.
I switched Transfiguration instantly — the metal shifted to absorb kinetic energy, and every impact juselesslyished into it. But the punches kept coming. I lost count after the first hundred, the hits blurring into one continuous storm.
The pressure built fast. My whole body trembled. The metal was hitting its limit — too much more and it would fail.
He noticed. His grin widened. "Running out of tricks?"
I ignored him. Where was Ira? I couldn't see him. For a terrifying second I thought Flex had gotten away.
"You know," the speedster said, casually dodging a desperate swing, "if I were still E-rank, you might actually have a chance." My stomach dropped. *Still?* He smiled. "You prepared for an E-rank speedster. Unfortunately for you, you're about three months late."
D-rank.
Suddenly everything made sense — the speed, the durability, the fact that he was still standing after everything I'd thrown at him. A newly promoted D-rank could slaughter dozens of E-ranks, and speedsters were already monsters among awakeners. A D-rank speedster was the kind of opponent people wrote wills before fighting.
No wonder nothing I did had worked.
Flex staggered toward the hidden room. The door sli,d open. A shadow stepped in behind him. A scream echoed out of the darkness.
Then silence.
Alarms erupted through the building, red lights flashing. Lockdown. Security knew. We had maybe a minute before every armed lunatic in the building showed up.
The speedster heard the alarms and sighed. "Now Flex might have died." His gaze settled on me. "So I'll have to capture you alive."
Not ideal. Definitely not ideal.
I made a decision I really didn't like. I transformed again — this metal absorbed heat continuously. The temperature in the office dropped instantly, frost spreading across the surfaces around us. The downside? It hit me too. Every second hurt.
The speedster frowned. "What are you—"
Then he attacked. Exactly what I wanted. Instead of dodging, I stepped forward.
And hugged him.
Of every combat strategy I'd ever imagined in my life, this was not one of them.
The speedster froze. "...What?"
Honestly, fair reaction. Our body temperatures equalized through contact, heat rushing into my transformed body. His skin went pale, his movements slowed — only slightly, but for a speedster, slightly was everything.
He tried to pull away. I tightened my grip. The cold deepened. His struggles weakened, his breathing turned ragged, his muscles stiffened. Panic finally hit his eyes.
"Let—go—"
"No."
The temperature kept dropping, his movements slowing further, and then —
A blade erupted through his chest.
His eyes went wide. Blood spilled from his mouth. Behind him stood Ira, holding the dagger.
The speedster collapsed. Dead.
My left arm hung useless at my side. Every breath sent pain through my ribs. Blood dripped from the corner of my mouth, and my vision blurred whenever I moved too fast.
Victory suddenly felt a lot less impressive.
For a moment, the office went silent. Then Ira grabbed my shoulder. "We have a problem."
"When don't we?"
"The entire building's in lockdown."
I looked at the flashing red lights. Fair point. We were stuck fifty floors up.
Even Ira looked worried. That was concerning.
Then an idea hit me. A terrible idea. Which meant it was probably perfect.
"Grab on."
"What?"
"Trust me."
"I don't like that sentence."
"Neither do I."
We sprinted for the windows just as the elevator doors blew open. Ten armed awakeners poured in, one of them firing immediately. More footsteps echoed from the hallway — dozens, maybe hundreds. Security teams, awakeners, scientists. Every second we stayed increased our odds of dying.
I shifted into kinetic-absorption metal and smashed through the reinforced glass. The window exploded outward, wind roaring around us. I grabbed Ira — princess carry, because apparently life hated my dignity.
"What are you doing?!" he screamed.
"Improvising!"
Then I jumped.
We fell. Fifty floors. Forty. Thirty. The city rushed up at us like a tidal wave of concrete and glass. Ira kept screaming — honestly, impressive lung capacity. I focused everything on holding the transformation.
Ten floors. Five. Three. One.
Impact.
The world shook. A crater formed under my feet, cracks spiderwebbing across the pavement, car alarms erupting all around us as a cloud of dust exploded outward. The kinetic energy disappeared harmlessly into the metal.
Somehow, neither of us had so much as a bruise.
I set Ira down gently. He stared at me, then at the crater, then back at me.
"I hate you."
"That's fair."
Thanks to Ira's ability, nobody noticed any of it — no one saw, no one heard. Within minutes we reached the hover car waiting nearby, with Handler 245 inside. Ira handed her a small data drive immediately.
So that was his secondary objective. Interesting.
245 inspected it, then nodded. "Mission completed." She looked at us, and for the first time, a small smile crossed her face.
It was honestly terrifying.
"Congratulations."
The word sounded strange. Nobody in Bloom congratulated people. People survived, people failed, people disappeared. Nobody got congratulated.
I exchanged a glance with Ira. Passed. After everything — the training, the torture, the missions, the experiments — we'd finally graduated.
"As of today," 245 continued, "you are Special Operatives of Bloom."
A strange feeling settled in my chest. Pride, relief, exhaustion. Probably all three.
As the hover car pulled away, I looked back one last time. The skyscraper stood lit up against the night sky. Somewhere inside, Flex and his bodyguard lay dead. Somewhere behind me, alarms still screamed. People would investigate, reports would get written, politicians would panic, and the world would move on.
Flex was just another name crossed off a list.
For me, though — he was the first person I'd ever killed.
I expected to feel something profound. Guilt, regret, horror. Instead, all I felt was exhaustion.
I wasn't sure if that meant I was adapting. Or becoming exactly what Bloom wanted me to be.