The Oleander

The crowded subway made me sick sometimes. I understood the importance of time—but I couldn't stand how close people were to each other, their bodies brushing against one another. It always gave perverts a chance to touch, and pickpockets a reason to steal.

I sat at the very edge of the train seat, placing my bag beside me, ensuring no one could sit too close—for my cold skin disgusts their warm temperatures.

"This will be the last time I take a train," I thought to myself, scanning the passengers.

A man in a hat and suit stood out.

I felt his eyes on me—like blades pressing against the nape of my neck.

He stood stiff and straight amidst the crowd, his gaze unmoving. He didn't bother to disguise his intent.

Arrogant killers often used this

technique—projecting menace, while hiding their own fear of death.

I scoffed inwardly.

Pathetic.

So this was Harris' decision on how to eliminate me.

I smirked.

Hiring lowly men the police labeled as "Top Killers."

They didn't understand me.

They didn't understand who they were sent to kill.

The first one followed me off the train—like a loyal dog who didn't know he'd been poisoned already.
He underestimated my pace, my senses, and most of all—my silence.

When the alley swallowed us whole, he made his move.

"You're prettier than they said."

I didn't reply.

"Such a shame. I'm supposed to cut your face before I kill you."

Still, I said nothing.

When he reached for his knife, I was already behind him.

"Too slow," I whispered.

My gloved hand wrapped around his throat. The venom-coated pin slid through his jugular.

He choked once. Then silence.

I let him fall.

The second came the next night.

I expected him.
He thought he was being clever—waiting at the rooftop of my safehouse.
But cleverness without skill? Is a child playing at war.

"I know you," he said. "You're the Oleander."

"Then you should know how this ends."

The fight was short. Brutal.
He was strong—but he wasn't me.

He managed a cut across my cheek.
I smiled.

"A parting gift?"

I snapped his neck before he could answer.

The third?

Well... he ran.

Smart. But too late.

He died from the poisoned bullet he never saw coming.

With meticulous care, I cleaned my gloves, wiping away the blood and grime.
The scent of iron lingered in the air, mingling with the faint floral aroma of the Oleander.

I still had unfinished business.

The third, second, and first top killers had all fallen.

But the one who sent them...

He's next.