The city was a labyrinth of shadows, the kind that whispered secrets to those who dared to listen. For Vincent Viper’ Marshall, the once-feared assassin, it had been years since he tread its treacherous paths. He had traded in his silenced pistol for paintbrushes, finding solace in vibrant strokes of color rather than blood. Yet as he stood in his studio, a stunning sunset painting half-completed, the ringing of his old flip phone tore through the tranquility.
A voice, barely above a whisper , told : “Dad, help me!”“Where are you?!”The call is end.
Vincent’s heart raced as he dropped the phone. Old instincts kicked in; he was an assassin again. He had left that life, buried it under layers of regret and isolation. But love was a powerful motivator, one he thought he could resist. He grabbed his worn leather jacket and set out into the night.
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