#hitmen

It was a very warm early autumn night, and the streets of Toontown were dimly lit by lights coming from late-opened shops, homes and apartments still bustling inside with people coming back from work. The street lighting fixtures finally blessed the late shift workers and night guards with their synthetic, dead light that could blind even the mightiest of moths and it would die upon seeing it. The piss yellow colour cast splotchy circles on the ground, in which dust danced freely. 

This scenery is also known as an ‘every week Thursday’, because we all know nothing important happened on Thursday. And on such an event-less night like this, Mugman and Cuphead just finished their last bounty, going home to celebrate it over a pint of beer and some stale pretzels they got discounted before the bakery they frequent closed for the day. “Can’t believe that guy basically handed us all the goodies!”, Cuphead’s voice beamed of fake proudness at their latest riad.  

Maybe someone shouldn’t be this glad after they just killed an entire gang that tried to overthrow the already existent main mafia in the backwaters of Toontown, but whatever gets the older collector’s boat sailing, one might guess. The two twins got in front of their block, where a tall man waited for them, avoiding the street lights, avoiding people’s gazes. He was dressed in all black, his trenchcoat was brooming the sidewalk in an all-too-fashionable way, and the hat he wore was covering his face. But they didn’t need to see in order to know who it was... 

“Finally you two discarded of those good for nothing lackeys.” The mysterious man sais before lighting himself a cigar. “Don has another job for the two of you tonight if you may.” An audible ‘tsk’ from Mugman, followed by an inquiry was med with a wide, sleazy grin and an envelope. Creamy, light purple accents – fancy. Too fancy... “Don P has some unfinished business with a certain Duck. She is going to attend a banquet, a party, I don’t know much. I haven’t opened the invitation and the Don doesn’t want to startle too much of the vein – the lady still is oblivious.” 

“So an in and out job, you say... we can do that, yes.” the tall mug said, snatching the invitation from their messenger and looked at his brother. “We’ll meet you in the morning to tell you the news.” The man nodded and left giving Cuphead a pat on the shoulder and slip-dropping something in one of his pockets.  

The two made their way in their apartment, the stale, unfiltered air welcoming them. Mugman turned on the lights, the lightbulb buzzing in protest, too old and tired to actually fill the hall with anything but a hue of dirty, off-white. “And here I wanted to just stay home for the night and scrape off Loz tickets from the gas station...” “Oh shut up, Crackhead! Don P always pays hearty if we do a good job.” his brother protested, going to take a seat on the couch. 

It groaned slightly under his weight, before Mugs opened the envelope and read it out loud from 2 to 3 lines. “Blah blah, to Vida Rosa, 20:00, str- blah blah invitation for a couples only-” And he frowned. Couples only. That idiot of a messenger got an invitation for a couple instead of +1 or solos or anything. They basically couldn’t go- unless... Cuphead already grabbed a bottle and opened it with a loud hiss.  

“What’s got ya panties in a twist, M’shot?”  “Cuphead do we still have that old robe Chalice left behind?” 

The bendy strawed calix froze mid room, confused to why his brother was basically asking for a ghost’s robe- no scratch that, the thing her corpse was wearing when they found it the first time and basically took it because it was covered in pink sugar and it helped with parrying. Even if it meant having to smell the decaying corpse on it. “Maybe... but uhhh... why? The effect wore off long ago.” 

Mugman showed his sibling the invitation, as if he didn’t hear what he read; and let’s be honest, he was too deep into the bag of pretzels to pay attention. “Tsk... wai- Mugman!” He shouted basically, as he realised what his twin brother was implying: one of them would have to dress up as a gal tonight to get in. “Can’t I just say my pair’s sick or something?” “And be suspicious for the whole night, you mean? Come on, you’d fit right in!” 

The clock was ticking and it was already 18:45. They had around an hour to get themselves presentable for the party tonight. And to think the friend of a star was going to be there tonight, made them even more stressed at the moment. Chaos - the property of a complex system whose behaviour is so unpredictable as to appear random, owing to great sensitivity to small changes in conditions; or better known as the two twin cup brothers trying to make one of them fit in a ladies dress and running up and down in the apartment in order to find ideas of how the hell they should play this tonight. 

“Dude, Mugs... that means you’re my date tonight.”  “Ew... I deserve better.” That earned a slap on the arm from his brother. But hey, he was right! 

Jokes aside, the lucky looser that got to be Chalice tonight was – drumrolls please – Mugman. He fit in the dress as the poor fabric was nearly going to break the second Cuphead made a move. Cursed be him with a leaner frame! Mugs was colouring in his eyelids with markers to make it look like makeup, as his brother was tying his tie. “I just realized something. Muggie. You’re absolutely fucking for a lady!” It was true, the robe showed a lot of arms, thankfully little legs and to be quite fair, his muscles were looking very not lean in this moment. “You... think this is gonna fly?”    He sighed “Gimme your jacket for the night. I’ll argue I’m cold or something.” A smart solution, at least for the time being. One of them had his brain with him for tonight at least.  

______________________________________ 

Vida Rosa, one of the most frequented casinos in Toontown, second in the whole Isles, falling shy a few hundred thousand grant in earnings under the Devil’s Casino. The place was too bright, the lighting was blinding, and the personnel too jolly. The pink hued lights coming from inside cascaded down the windowsills and bled into the pavement, mixing with the stale yellow light from nearby night lamps. “Tsk... too bright” Mugman argued, and it was indeed too bright: the numerous small bulbs of light circling the welcome sign and the weird wire concoction in the windows glowing between a crisp white and a blinding fucsia.  

In other words, the building stood out from other neighboring buildings like a sore thumb. Calm and soft and welcoming were the community library, some coquette flower shops and even a grocery store at the ground floor of a block of flats. But either way, they needed to deal with this hit, just like other times. 

Once at the entrance the cup brothers were stopped by two bouncers; oxen toons – big, scarry, easily irritable. “We’re reserved tonight” The tone had all the intentioned bite to it, too much even. “And we are here for the event,” Cuphead pulls out the envelope from the back of his pants, zero mannerism, which did make one of the guards scrunch up his snout. Although, they would’ve loved to throw them into the street, the two oxen had no real case to deny them entry, despite their odd appearance. “Weirdo’s” The other muttered as Mugman and Cuphead finally made their way inside.  

A particularly loud band was playing live that night, and their intel man hasn’t really said something important: all the fucking STARS were there for the night. Cuphead couldn’t tare his eyes off the Jessica Rabbit in particular, keeping an eye out if she notices something. It wouldn’t be the first time the head of the Justice Department would screw over their hit and chase them down with a small team trying to arrest them. They always got away, of course. Red couldn’t catch them when they were 8 and “defenseless”, then, she couldn’t catch them now. But you can never be too sure with that woman. Right now, she might seem to be chatting with her family, having fun and all – but the next she could take out her gun and kill a bitch if she needed to protect the rest of the STARS. 

“Ugh, I hate this.” The younger Collector finally whispered to his brother. “Some drunk dude is already staring at me in a way that makes me wanna punch him seven ways to Sunday.” His tone was literally sky rocketing from annoyed to absolutely angry, and it amused the cup.  

“Come on. Told ya it suits you!” He snickered back and snatched two champagne glasses from a man walking with a tray around the main area. “You need to keep it up. Lock in,” takes a sip, while offering the other glass to his brother “The faster we get her, the faster we can get out of here and get the greenies. P is late on his payments again anyways.“ 

Mugman knew he was right: both with how fast and smooth they could deliver this hit, and with the fact the Don is late with his payments on past STARS’ staff hits. The man had a burning hate for them, but he sure was not bleeding out the greenies Cuphead so desperately wanted. When Mugs looked around the room, trying to find Mrs. Duck, his brother was already gone to the nearest roulette table. Classic. After all, the guy basically gambled their should to the Devil 20 years ago. Who says he’s gonna say no to loosing a couple hundred bucks tonight? 

But at least he spotted her, in the back of the saloon, alone at a table, the lights almost avoiding her in a way. Even after all these years she would still sit alone, close to herself... Mugman quickly shook his head to brush away the thought. Rule no. 1 to being a hitman to hire: no mercy, no empathy. In this world, the ones that care, the ones that hesitate will die. One way or another, they will; and he knew better than to hesitate. Having his brother’s suit jacket on allowed him to carry the demon’s touch easier.  

“Come on, Mugsy. You can do this: in and out. Aaaaaand don’t forget your brother by the betting tables.” 

He slowly made his way closer to the table Mrs. Duck was seated at but not directly, not to attract any unwanted attention from people. Especially since Department of Justice and Department of Defense were present tonight. And let’s just say he still has that scar on his arm from one of Sonic’s bullets. Or Shadow. He couldn’t care less about who shot him that early spring morning. 

He tried to make small talk with other people, trying to give the impression of being social – he was not. He was dying inside, and if his handle needed to hear another woman talk about how hard it is to handle their men, he would flip out and spike all those men’s drinks. Not a girl’s girl, but close enough one could guess. 

“What was your name again?”  “Mugcake, Mugcake Tupper-” He didn’t even know where that came from. He didn’t really thought of a good second life identity, but... he just blurted it out in that strained overly forced woman’s voice.   “Nice to meet you- must be hard for you too huh? You look tired” 

Tired he was. But he’d never admit that, especially to some stranger dame who he has to talk to only not to seem like a weirdo that sticks out like a sore thumb. “Oh, I’m just more of a morning person.” The most common and boring excuse of an excuse anyone who pulled an all nighter the night before comes up with. After a few more exchanges of casserole recipes and ways to hide happy pills in cookie jars to take when your kids are still home; he managed to slip past the group and inch closer to the furthest table in the corner. 

The woman sitting there was alone, slowly drinking from a glass of Sidecar, the velvety ribbon on her hat tilting left and right, up and down with each move of her head – hat that was already tipped downward, like she was avoiding people on purpose. But since it wasn’t a single table, there was another chair, empty, and an untouched glass of Old Fashioned throned on top of a napkin. Usual sign the person who used to sit there was deceased. But mugman ignored that, and decided to play dumb. “Good evening, miss... uhh, I hope I don’t interrupt.” 

With a low humm, quiet and a voice raw like it was rarely used anymore, she spoke “I don’t know you. Saw you chatting up with some bunch after your brother left to gamble,” She looked up, directly at Mugs “I’m right aren’t I?” 

“H-how-” He almost broke character and cursed himself mentally for it  “Oh I saw the way you two talk. Good play getting in, doll. Your fake voice is almost convincing too. But there aren’t many calix type toons in this town, and I am not as stupid as some people think.” Shit, shit shitshitshit-! The hag caught them! 

Despite all odds and everything being out on the table, Daisy Duck dared snicker and stand up. “Come on, let’s go to the ladies room. Company...” Ah yes... he was going to get shot in a ladies restroom. But if she pulls out her gun, he’d just have to charge up his fingers and counterattack. He’s good at that, he’s good at dodging. He’d be safe if anything happens. The walk to the bathroom was not long, not short; but the fact the duck toon knew the truth and they still had to keep appearances... apoke a lot. And once inside, she blocked the doorway with a trashcan that sat near the sinks area for disposed handtowels. 

“How were you going to take me out, hmm?” 

“Demon’s touch in your drink. Almost fast enough to kill you before I’d grab my brother and leave.” Might as well go with the truth at the moment. What use was there in hiding it. He even took out the small pack and gently smacked it against the glossy surface of the bathroom island. “Listen-”    “No... I know who sent you. And I want to tell you,” she hesitates for a moment, looking at the powder in the small bag. She knew the day will come for her too. She knew Don P was going after her as Madame Minnie-... She closed her eyes and let out a heavy sigh that held years of grief for both her husband and her friend. “I won’t stop you. But I want one last wish.” 

Rule no.1: no mercy, no empathy. 

“When me and Minnie were younger I used to do her makeup for her singing gigs.”    Rule no.1: no mercy, no empathy. 

“And since your makeup lookes like shit, Let me do it.” 

Rule no.1: no mercy, no empathy. 

“Why?” He asked  confused, and clearly battling with his own “morals” and rules at the moment.  “Because I’d be damned if I let a lady walk around with busted up marker ink instead of makeup,” She pulls out a small purse from her coat “I don’t care if you’re from butt-no-where country side. Alright? Even men in drag need to be up to par...” She slowly opened the purse and took out some wet wipes “Drag up, farm boy!“ 

Rule no. 2: honour last wishes. 

Mugman exasperatedly groaned and let his shoulders slump, looking at the short duck toon like she already went insane. But who knows; maybe the poor woman did go mad with grief. Who was he to question the sanity of his and his brother’s hits when they themselves were already too deep into the gutter. “Alright... be it your way, Mrs. Duck.” 

“I just want to see Donald again...” 

He almost folded at that, but he knew better than to walk out of a hit. He learned from his past mistakes. Seeing the confrontation on his face, she smiled. Genuinely smiled for the first time in years and slapped the wipe on his face and rubbed off the markers with careful hands. “Today I fed some stray cats near 2nd Black Rue. Two orange cats, a bit chubby. They are really nice fellas that purr and meow the second they see someone walk up to them with kibble.” Oh, for fucks sake! He needs to sit through another round of women talk. 

Once his face was all cleaned, Daisy took out some eyeliner. “Look up, it’s easier that way,” and hummed when he did so. “They’re just the sweetest little things, you know? Have you had pets before or something similar?” 

“Back when we lived with grandpa, me and my brother had a pet fish. We named her SS Underwater Tank-” She laughs again at that, the name was intentional. He wanted to see how she’d react. “Kidding, it was Ristretto. She had a good life with gramps back in the hut. Now he’s taking care of Espresso, some other goldfish.” 

Meanwhile, her hands were diligently working on contouring his tear lines. And props to him, he didn’t even flinch. Some ladies might have problems with it, but here he was, some jacked Collector, in drag, maybe for the first time not even flinching. “Oh, that’s cute~ Me and Donald didn’t really have pets after we married. We pet sat a lot though. Work kept us too busy for that-” and she switched to the other eye, carefully. 

“Yeah....? And how was Donald?” 

“He was... kind. He fought in the war with a heart. He never ended an already wounded soldier’s life. He said it wasn’t fair. People on both sides respected him for that.” The she takes out a soft purple-ish powder and rubbed a finger on it, then gently dabbed the hue under the eye, where she’d guess a mug would have cheekbones. “And even before, he took care of his nephews like they were his children, went to children’s hospice homes... He was a good man.” 

“I bet.... he sounds a lot like our grandpa. He also faught in the war, even if he was a bit old, and returned with a shiny medal for first aiders-”  “Your grandfather... was he a Gold Hand?” 

“I think so...” He mumbled “We’re from the calix amani, so healing people’s souls isn’t that hard for us, if we are taught how to do it.” 

She patted his shoulder as she wiped her hands clean of the blush. “He’d be proud you still hold on to honour during your hits. I sure am, even if you killed my favourite circus troope” She attempted a joke, as she scavenged her purse for that one lipstick that seemed to always shift in and out of existence at may. And when she found it, she grabbed his face not-so-gently. “Don’t talk. Stretch your lips- oh right.... you don’t have any” 

She carefully applied the rouge in a lip shaped way around his mouth. “You know, you calixes really are lucky. Your faces are very customizable.” “Shut up, hag!” “I said, don’t talk.” 

And a few minutes later, his look was finished, though he didn’t dare look into the mirror. He felt guilty. He almost forgot why he was here in the first place. “So,” Mrs. Duck’s voice snaps Mugman our of his little trance “How... h-how painful is this... Demon’s touch?” 

“Pretty damn agonizing for the first 2 seconds. Then it kills your entire nervous system. I could always just shoot you if you’d prefer that.”  “Too loud, Jes’ would be on your tail in seconds.” 

She was right. Red almost got them one too many times and they really needed the money too. “What is I take a double dose?” “Let’s find out-” 

Before he could react and grab the pouch from the island, she did. She was small, but fast for an old toon like herself. “Run... Don’t look back. Grab your brother and leave... stat.” He didn’t argue, and left before he could hear the last of her prayers and apologies to all her loved ones. The less he heard, the less he’d nightmare about it tonight. He didn’t run, he wasn’t stupid: he would’ve attracted attention.  

Mugman made a beeline for the roulette table where Cuphead still was trying to win back his looses. “Bank angle.” and, like a soldier at the hear of “At ease-” Cuphead first tensed, then sat up fast and bolted after his brother, people screaming in the background. They found her body already. 

“Shit! Mugs, what the hell?! You didn’t wait for me?”  “You were in too deep, idiot. Had to finish the mission!” 

They ran faster than they ever did, making it back home in one piece only by pure luck. How did no one chase after them... Then Mugman realised: “They thought it was suicide!” He shouted in half exhaustion and a sick kind of happiness. “Suicide.... the bathroom, it was drugs. Genius duck!” 

His brother agreed, going to the kitchen to grab those now even staler pretzels “Yeah? Cool. Wait.... you look different.” “Her last wish was to do my makeup. Sentimental bullshit”. 

“And you still did it.” Mugman nodded and then- “Purple doesn’t suit you, little bro-”  

_____________________ 

The next morning, at 6 am, still sleepy, Mugman was walking down town, to 2nd Black Rue, until he heard a small meow. Soft, sleepy... and went towards it. He placed an already opened can of tuna and one of sardines down on the pavement near a trashcan and cats suddenly appeared, nibbling away at the fish. Their tails trembled slightly at the new taste as they were used to kibble and maybe some old meat thrown from the windows. 

The room is designed to make people feel small.

That’s the first thing you notice as you step inside,how deliberately oppressive it is. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over New York, but the glass is tinted dark, muting the city into a blur of lights and movement. No warmth. No color. Just steel, glass, and the quiet hum of power. The kind of room where decisions get made that never make the news. The table dominates the space. It’s long enough to feel excessive, polished black wood reflecting the recessed lights above it. Every chair is filled except one, yours. Men and women in tailored suits sit straight-backed and patient, hands folded, faces carefully neutral. Executives. Legal. PR. Security. The people who never pull the trigger but always decide who does. You take your seat anyway. Agent L/N. Independent contractor. Asset. Weapon. Whatever title makes it easier for them to sleep at night. A folder slides across the table toward you, pushed by a woman you vaguely recognize from Risk Management. Her nails are manicured, pale pink, perfect. They always are. You flip the folder open without ceremony.

ELLIOT GRANGER.

Former Vought logistics director. Mid-level executive. The kind of man who never gets his hands dirty but always knows where the bodies are buried. There are photos, him leaving a restaurant, entering a town car, laughing with someone who looks like they trust him. Financial records. Redacted memos. A timeline that ends abruptly three weeks ago.

“Mr. Granger has become… unpredictable.” one of them says, voice calm, smooth, rehearsed. “He’s been making inquiries. Pulling old files. Asking questions that could jeopardize ongoing operations.” You snort quietly. Unpredictable. That’s a new one.

“So you want him gone,” you say flatly. “Just say that.” A few of them exchange looks. Someone clears their throat. The same man continues, unfazed. “We didn’t want to involve you, Agent. This is a last resort.”

There it is.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossing. “You didn’t want to involve me, but you did anyway. Must be real fucking desperate.” No one rises to the bait. They never do. They talk about discretion, about containment, about how Granger’s death would be regrettable but necessary. They dress it up in corporate language, like this isn’t just another cleanup job to protect their bottom line. You’re halfway through tuning them out when the door opens. The sound cuts through the room, heavy boots against marble, slow and deliberate. You don’t need to look to know who it is. Your jaw tightens before your brain even catches up. Then you look. Soldier Boy walks in like he owns the place.

Leather jacket. That same smug, self-satisfied expression that makes your skin crawl. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone else in the room, just you. His eyes lock on yours and his grin spreads, lazy and mean. “Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” you say, pushing your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. A couple of executives flinch. Soldier Boy doesn’t. “Damn,” he says, whistling softly. “And here I was hoping this’d be a pleasant surprise.”

You stand. “I’m not doing this. Whatever this is.” You gesture between the two of you. “Pick someone else.” He chuckles, slow and amused. “Still holding a grudge? Thought we worked pretty well together last time.” You glare at him. “You turned a clean hit into a goddamn war zone.”

“Hey,” he says, holding up his hands mockingly. “Collateral happens.”

“No.” you snap. “You made it happen.” The room is silent now. All eyes on the two of you. This isn’t in the script, and they hate that. Soldier Boy drops into the empty chair across from you, spreading his legs, boots tapping against the table leg. “Relax, sweetheart. If Vought called us both in, it’s ‘cause they want results. Means they trust me.”

You bark out a laugh. “They trust you because you’re loud, reckless, and terrifying. That doesn’t make you professional.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, grin sharpening. “Funny. Last I checked, my body count’s higher than yours.”

“And last I checked,” you shoot back, “mine doesn’t include people who weren’t on the list.” That lands. His smile twitches, just barely. One of the executives finally intervenes. “Please. Sit down. Both of you.” You don’t sit. Soldier Boy doesn’t move.

“This assignment,” the exec continues carefully, “is… unique.”

You feel it then, the shift in the room. The tension tightening like a wire pulled too far.

“There’s an incentive.” another voice adds. You cross your arms. “Spit it out.” They exchange looks again. Then the first man speaks. “You’re both being assigned the same target.” Soldier Boy lets out a low laugh. “Now this I like.” Your eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Because,” the man says, “whoever completes the contract first will be offered-”

“A permanent position,” another exec cuts in. “Better pay. Full recognition.” Soldier Boy straightens slightly. “-full immunity,” they continue, “from all past operations.” Your breath catches despite yourself. “And,” the first man finishes, “a future beyond… field work.”

Beyond being a weapon. 

“But we need to make sure we pick the right person for the offer.” 

The room goes quiet. You look at Soldier Boy. Really look at him. The way his fingers tighten against the arm of the chair. The way his grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. He wants it. Bad. You hate that you do too. “So let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You’re dangling freedom in front of us and expecting us not to tear each other apart?”

“That’s the idea.” someone says blandly. Soldier Boy laughs. “Hell of a race.” You shake your head. “This is bullshit. You’re turning it into a spectacle.” He tilts his head. “You scared you can’t beat me?”

“No,” you snap. “I’m pissed you’re even an option.”

“Ouch.”

You look back at the table. At the suits. At the city beyond the glass. You’ve done everything right, kept your kills clean, your trail invisible. And still, you’re here. Still disposable.

A permanent contract.

Immunity.

A way out.

You exhale slowly. “Fine.” you say. Soldier Boy’s brows lift. “Really?” You meet his gaze, cold and steady. “I’ll take the job. But make no mistake, this isn’t a partnership.” He grins, sharp and dangerous. “Good. Wouldn’t want it to be.” You grab the folder, tucking it under your arm. “First one to kill Granger gets the prize.” He stands too, towering over you. “May the best killer win.” You pause at the door, glancing back at him. “Try not to get civilians killed this time.” He chuckles. “No promises.”

As you walk out, one thing is painfully clear. Vought didn’t hire you to kill Elliot Granger. They hired you to survive Soldier Boy.

The first sign that Vought is fucking with you comes three hours after the meeting. Your burner goes dead. Not the battery, dead-dead. No signal. No backup channel. No reroute. You stop short on the sidewalk, the city rushing around you like nothing’s wrong, like you aren’t suddenly exposed in the middle of Manhattan with a target on your back. You try the second phone. Same thing.

“Son of a bitch.” you mutter.

A black SUV idles across the street. You don’t look at it. You don’t need to. You already know who’s inside. You change direction anyway, cutting down an alley, then another, until you reach the safehouse Vought assigned you years ago. It’s supposed to be temporary. Everything with them always is. You unlock the door, step inside and freeze.

Soldier Boy is already there.

He’s sprawled on the couch like he fucking lives here, boots kicked up on your coffee table, jacket tossed over the armrest. The TV’s on low, some mindless news ticker scrolling at the bottom. He looks annoyingly comfortable. You close the door slowly.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” you say. He glances over, grins. “Hey, roomie.” Your hand twitches toward your gun before you remember, this is Vought’s game now. They wouldn’t let either of you kill the other. Not yet. “What the fuck are you doing here?” you snap. He shrugs. “Same as you. Got the address. Got the key. Guess we’re slumming it together.” You drop your bag on the table harder than necessary. “They said my safehouse.”

“They said safehouse,” he corrects. “Singular.” Your jaw tightens. “You smell like cheap cologne, get off my couch.” He laughs, deep and easy and doesn't move. “Relax. We’re professionals. We can share.” You glare at him. “Last time we ‘shared,’ you blew up half a city block.”

“Exaggeration.”

“You killed three people who weren’t on the list.”

“They were in the way.” You stalk past him into the kitchenette, checking drawers, cabinets, the hidden compartment behind the fridge. Half of it’s gone. Weapons cache stripped down. No explosives. Minimal ammo. One intel channel. One exit plan. Vought didn’t just cut your resources. They gutted them. Soldier Boy watches you take inventory, his grin fading just slightly. “Looks like they trimmed the fat.”

“They’re testing us,” you say. “Seeing who adapts. Who breaks.” He leans forward. “And who wins.” You turn on him. “This isn’t a fucking game.” He stands too, slow, towering, closing the distance. “Sure it is. Winner gets everything. Loser keeps bleeding in the shadows.” You don’t back down. “You think they’re actually going to let one of us walk away?” He pauses. Just for a second. “Doesn’t matter,” he says finally. “I’m not losing.”

Neither are you. That night, Vought sends the deadline.

72 hours.

One target. One city. Two killers.

You don’t sleep.

You sit at the table, mapping Granger’s known routes, tracing financial ties, burner pings. Soldier Boy hovers behind you, unimpressed. “You’re overthinking it,” he says. “We hit his last known residence. Flush him out.”

“You don’t flush executives,” you snap. “You spook them and they disappear.”

“Fear makes people sloppy.”

“So does arrogance.” He smirks. “Worked for me so far.” You ignore him and keep working. The next morning, you move separately. You tail Granger’s former assistant. Soldier Boy hits one of his shell companies. You don’t coordinate. You don’t trust him. By nightfall, the city proves you wrong. Your surveillance goes sideways fast.

You’re three floors up in an office building across from a private parking garage when the lights cut out. Emergency generators kick in seconds later, too late. Someone spotted you.

You move for the stairs and the windows across the street explode. Glass rains down. Screams erupt. You duck instinctively, heart slamming into your ribs.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Soldier Boy.” You didn’t tell him where you were. He didn’t need to know. Granger’s convoy peels out of the garage in chaos, engines roaring. You sprint down the stairwell, cursing under your breath, already knowing you lost the trail. By the time you hit the street, it’s gone. And Soldier Boy is standing there, smoke curling off his jacket, looking pleased with himself.

“You’re an irresponsible dick.” you snap, shoving past him. He grabs your arm.

Hard.

“Hey,” he growls. “You’re welcome.”

“For what?” you hiss. “Ruining my setup?”

“For keeping you alive.” he says quietly.

You pause. He releases you, jaw tight. “Snipers on the roof across the street. You didn’t clock them.” Your stomach twists. You hadn’t. You hate that.

“You still blew the op.” you say. He shrugs. “Didn’t let you die.” You stalk away before he can see the crack in your composure. The second night, Vought tightens the leash.

48 hours.

They funnel intel through one shared channel now. You don’t like it. Neither does he. But the data’s good, Granger’s moving again. This time, you end up in the same place. A derelict warehouse on the Hudson. You’re inside, moving silent, when you hear boots behind you, heavy, familiar. “Stay behind me.” Soldier Boy mutters. You scoff. “Fuck off.” The ambush hits fast. Gunfire. Shouts. Bodies hitting concrete. You take the left flank. He takes the right. You don’t plan it, it just happens. A guard comes up behind him. You shoot first. A sniper lines you up. Soldier Boy throws his shield without looking. When it’s over, the warehouse is quiet except for your breathing. He looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Nice shot.”

You reload. “Don’t get used to it.” Back at the safehouse, adrenaline still buzzing, the arguing resumes.

“You can’t just bulldoze every situation.” you snap. “And you can’t tiptoe around it,” he fires back. “This isn’t ballet doll.”

“You don’t need to enjoy it.” He steps closer. “You think I enjoy it?” You meet his gaze. “I think you don’t mind.” Silence stretches between you. Then he laughs, rough. “You don’t know shit about me.”

“Good,” you say. “I don’t want to.”

But later, too late, you realize you slept easier knowing he was on watch. The final message comes at dawn.

24 hours.

You sit at the table together now. No pretense. No separation. Granger’s boxed in. One last location. One last chance. “Whoever gets there first,” Soldier Boy says, rolling his shoulders, “ends this.” You nod. “And whoever doesn’t?” He smirks. “Better hope Vought keeps their word.” You don’t respond. Because for the first time since this started, you’re not just racing him to the kill. You’re wondering what happens if neither of you does. And that thought is more dangerous than any bullet.

The city looks different at three in the morning. Quieter. Meaner. Like it’s holding its breath.

You and Soldier Boy sit in the SUV Vought provided, unmarked, armored, impersonal. The kind of vehicle designed to disappear into traffic or explode spectacularly depending on what Vought needs that day. Rain streaks down the windshield, blurring the neon glow of the docks ahead. Granger’s location blinks on the shared tablet between you.

Confirmed sighting. Warehouse 17B. Single ingress. Limited security.

You snort. “Limited my ass.” Soldier Boy doesn’t look at you. He’s checking his gear, methodical for once. “Yeah. Smells like a trap.”

“Then why walk into it?” He finally meets your eyes. There’s something sharp there now. Focused. Not cocky. “Because if we don’t, Vought sends someone else. And they don’t offer second chances.” You hate that he’s right. The SUV rolls to a stop a block away. You both step out, the rain instantly soaking into your jacket. The warehouse looms ahead, rusted metal, broken windows, lights flickering inside like a dying pulse. You move first. Habit. Training. Soldier Boy falls beside you without comment. Inside, it’s too quiet. Your boots crunch softly over shattered glass. The air smells like oil and ozone. You sweep left, gun up, senses stretched thin. “See anything?” you whisper. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “Which I don’t like.” You reach the central floor and stop dead. The warehouse is empty. No Granger. No guards. No signs of a recent presence, except for a single chair bolted to the floor and a small black case sitting neatly on top of it. Your stomach drops. “Fuck,” you breathe. “He knew.”

Soldier Boy circles the chair, shield raised. “Or Vought did.”

You approach the case slowly, every nerve screaming. There’s a red light blinking on the side. Not a bomb.at least, not one that’s armed. You flip it open. Inside is a burner phone. It rings the second you touch it. You freeze. Soldier Boy swears under his breath. You answer.

“Agent L/N,” Granger’s voice crackles through the speaker, calm and infuriatingly smug. “I was wondering which of you would show up first.”

“Where are you?” you snap. He chuckles. “Does it matter? You already lost.” Soldier Boy leans in. “You’re dead, you know that?”

“Oh, I’m very aware,” Granger replies. “That’s why I made sure my death would be… inconvenient.” Your pulse spikes. “What did you do?”

“I told Vought the truth,” he says simply. “About you. About him. About the real reason this contract exists.” Your throat goes dry. “What real reason?” A pause. Then-  “Because there is no permanent contract. No immunity. No future.” You glance at Soldier Boy. He’s gone still. “Bullshit.” he growls. “Is it?” Granger asks. “Ask yourselves, why would Vought let their two most effective weapons walk away?” Your hand tightens around the phone. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Granger says. “Check your feeds.” Soldier Boy pulls out his tablet. His face hardens. “They wiped the contract,” he says slowly. “Kill order updated.” Your heart slams. “Updated to what?” He looks at you. “Termination,” he says. “Both of us.” The phone crackles again. “I bought myself time,” Granger continues. “You were never competing against each other. You were proving you could be turned on command.” Your chest feels tight. Angry. Sick. Betrayed in a way you should’ve seen coming. “And now?” you ask.

“Now,” Granger says, “you’re liabilities.” The line goes dead. For a moment, all you can hear is the rain pounding against the roof. Then Soldier Boy laughs. It’s not amused. It’s sharp. Broken. Dangerous. “Well,” he says, looking at you. “Guess nobody’s winning.” You swallow. “We need to move. Now.” Too late. The warehouse lights snap on all at once, blinding. Doors slam shut. Heavy metal echoes through the space. Armed silhouettes appear on the catwalks above. Vought’s cleanup crew. Soldier Boy raises his shield, stepping in front of you without thinking. “Stay behind me.” You don’t argue this time. Gunfire erupts.

Bullets ricochet. You fire back, heart hammering, adrenaline burning through your veins. You drop two agents on the left catwalk. Soldier Boy takes the right, roaring as he charges forward. It’s chaos. Smoke. Shouting. Then, an explosion. The floor buckles beneath you. You’re thrown hard, crashing into concrete, vision blurring. You struggle to breathe, ears ringing. You push yourself up to see Soldier Boy across the room, pinned under fallen debris, blood running down his temple. Your eyes meet. For the first time, there’s no rivalry there. Just understanding.

The ceiling groans overhead. And then it starts to collapse.

Part 2