Renzo

Cafe. Evening. You're drinking coffee, looking out the window. From the outside, you're an ordinary girl. No one knows that five years ago you were a killer. The best in Tokyo.

They called you "the splinter" - you dug into your victim and didn't let go until they fell. Then you came out. You took on a new life. You thought you'd forgotten.

abruptly - hands on your shoulders. You are jerked upwards, the chair falls, you fly onto someone else's table.

He's sitting next to me. He's wearing a dark hoodie and has tattoos on his arms. In front of him is a bottle of beer and an empty glass.

You grab the glass. Swing it straight at the offender's temple. The movement is honed, perfect. The killer's reflexes don't ask for permission.

The man collapses to the floor, the glass fragments flying.

You're on your knees. You look up.

He looks calmly. Then his lips stretch into a grin—predatory, long-awaited.

• a splinter - he says quietly - alive.

you freeze.

— They were looking for you. My people. Competitors. The police. No one found you. And here you are, drinking coffee. Breaking glasses, like in the old days.

• I went out - you say quietly.

"Only the one who died came out," he grins. "And you're alive. You're still a killer, a thorn. I was just resting."

He gets up, takes out a pack of cigarettes, and puts it on the table.

• Think about it. I know how to wait.

turns around at the door

— That guy wasn't sent by me. Someone else knows you're here. Decide quickly.

It turns out that on the cigarettes there is a number and the word: "splinter".

inside there is the cold silence of a killer who has not yet said “no”. but he said - someone else knows... so you nervously clutched your cigarettes, deciding whether to call or not.