The Oleander

Looking up, the design of this hospital was once grand—a circle with an open center for fresh air to reach the patients long gone. Now, it was a haunting shell of its former self.

Due to unpaid debts, the hospital's owner met his end at the hands of the Vincenzo family's former master—the late Don Faron Vincenzo—who wielded a legendary black sword adorned with a red dragon.

Though those swords held no relevance to my current situation, the idea of handling such a weapon—renowned for its unparalleled toughness—stirred something in me. I've always had an affinity for blades: deadly, perilous, and remorseless.

As I scanned the abandoned rooms, a mannequin caught my eye. I chuckled, inspired by a sudden idea.

Stripping off my coat and outer layer of pants, I dressed the mannequin in my clothes. Using a thin transparent string, I tied its joints, connecting the strings to a thick rope secured to a pillar. The other end of the string was tied to some clothes I found, then to a wooden plank which I threw towards a window on the second floor.

This rudimentary setup was a survival tactic I had never used before. Harris had taught me how to control a puppet when I was thirteen, but this... this was different. It was childish, perhaps—but it might buy me the time I needed to face the other top killers later tonight.
I needed to conserve my energy.

I leapt into the room where I had thrown the strings. Five rotten hospital beds greeted me, a stark reminder of the hospital's decay.

"What a waste," I muttered. "These could have been donated to those in need."

The eerie silence made me wonder—why were there no homeless people here?

Maybe this place really is haunted?
I chuckled at the thought. I'm not afraid of ghosts—I've been haunted by worse. Traumas and nightmares cling to my soul like shadows. But they can't touch me in reality.

I started untying the strings from the wood plank.
Checking my watch: 3:20 PM.
Five more minutes.

I began assembling my small, deadly black sniper gun—custom-made for me. Fully loaded and ready, I took my position.

Ken—the third top killer, and once a colleague—was close. We had crossed paths many times, but today would be our final encounter.

Ken's story was tragic, yet simple:
He escaped from an orphanage plagued by child traffickers when he was sixteen—only to witness Harris slaughter the traffickers and leave the other children to flee.
Ken alone approached Harris, kneeling in front of him. Trained under him, he rose to become one of the top killers.

But life is simple:

LIVE or DIE.

In our dark world, only the strongest survive.
Today, I intended to kill these top killers... and claim their places.

Wasn't it fascinating?

The loud creaking of old doors and the crunch of footsteps on dried leaves signaled Ken's arrival.
This was going to be exciting.

I began manipulating the mannequin, making it appear like an injured version of myself. It moved toward the pillar where the strings were connected.

Ken raised his gun—a CZ 75 with a silencer—and fired at the mannequin.
Bullets cut through it, severing some strings.
The mannequin flipped toward him... revealing its true nature.

Too late, Ken.
I placed my gun at the window and aimed.
Finger on the trigger.

Innocence was a luxury in our line of work—one that Ken still harbored, thinking he could find me on the upper floors instead of retreating.

As the wind blew through the window, sending my shiny black hair fluttering—our eyes met.

"Die."

Two shots to the chest.
One to the head.
He fell.

I watched through the scope, confirming his death before descending.

I kicked his gun away and started stomping on his head until it was nothing but a bloody pulp—ensuring he was truly dead.
Ken was no ordinary person.

I chuckled at his lifeless eyes and picked up his gun.

A sudden clank behind me made my ears twitch.
I sensed another presence.
I darted behind a pillar as bullets whizzed past.

"Oleander," a mocking voice called out, "don't make this harder. Just give me your head and let me swim in money."

He taunted—laughter punctuating his words.
This man behind me... he's a real, living sociopath—confirmed.

"What makes you think I'll let you live after seeing my hair?" I replied coldly.

He laughed louder, confirming my suspicion:
He's not a sociopath... he's a fucking psychopath.

"Are you a fucking Muslim? Damn it, Oleander. Enough with the jokes. All I need is your pretty little head."

I scoffed, pulling the strings connected to the mannequin.
As it moved, he turned—
And I seized the moment, sprinting towards the stairs.
He followed.

He was the second top killer: Mael.
Known for his speed and agility in combat.

We faced off on the third floor—
I sliced bullets with my blade.
One scratched my jaw.

I threw a dagger—piercing the edge of his gun and flicking it from his hand.
He quickly pulled out his daggers.

Our blades clashed—each movement echoing through the empty hallways.
He never looked at my eyes—focused on getting close enough to break my bones.
He was an MMA fighter—a close-combat professional.

I jumped backward, ran to the fourth floor.
I needed a plan.

Close combat wasn't my strength,
But I could match his speed and agility.

In the 25th room, I found gallons of methanol.
Science's magic.

I paused.
Mael lunged—
But I turned swiftly, defended myself from his blades, though not prepared to counter his strength.

I slid inside, slicing the gallons—spilling methanol all over the floor.
He wounded my right leg.
I couldn't afford to care.
Mael was right in front of me.

I stood up.

As he stepped onto the wet floor, I threw a dagger.
He caught it—and discarded it.

I hurled a hospital bed at him.
He fell—soaked in methanol.

I hurried to the door, removing the leather glove from my left hand to reveal my metal-tipped fingers.
I slipped a thin paper from my right hand.

"What are you gonna do with it, huh, Oleander? You think a paper with a small flame can kill me?"

He chuckled—irritated, but approaching.

"No," I said, smirking.

I snapped my fingers—igniting the thin paper with the friction of my metal tips.
Dropping it...

The methanol erupted in flames.

Mael screamed as the invisible fire consumed him.

"Oleander! You motherfucker!"

He writhed in agony—flames licking his skin.
As dark clouds covered the setting sun, the blue flames became visible, dancing around his body like a cruel ballet.

He died screaming.

"Swim in fire, Mael."
I smirked after saying my last words for him.

Watching him burn, I felt a twisted pleasure.
His death was both a spectacle and a relief.

Descending to the open center of the hospital, I burned my coat and outer pants along with the mannequin.
My fingers—snapping to create fire—made quick work of the task.
The clothes, riddled with Ken's bullets, were useless now.

Actually, I fancy fire as well.

Pain surged through my right leg and jaw—a reminder of Mael's parting gift.
I wrapped it in a black vet wrap after applying medicine.
I had enjoyed watching Mael die... forgetting my own injury.

I ignored the blood-soaked sand under my feet.
I didn't care if the police discovered my identity again.
I could kill them too.

I continued walking toward Harris's office.
The first killer awaited—resting.

Each step—a blend of determination and defiance—brought me closer to my ultimate confrontation.
The blood trail behind me... was a testament to my resolve.

In this world, only the strongest survive.

And I intend to be the last one standing...

Because this... was far from over.