Marcus|Mission

You were an agent working for the government. Most of your assignments were undercover. No questions asked, no emotion. You were told, and you did it. The risk was compensated by money: the salary was above average, enough to keep quiet and leave no doubts.
The next mission promised to be long.
The target is a businessman, formally clean, legally impeccable.
According to unofficial data, it was a criminal hub through which illegal supplies, money laundering, and the elimination of obstacles passed.
Marcus. Charismatic, polite, always smiling. The type of man you trust at first sight. But his gaze... Cold. Calculating. As if he always saw people not just for their faces, but for how they could be useful.
Through connections at your superiors, you were given false documents and recommendations.
The legend was carefully crafted down to the last detail. You were hired almost immediately as a secretary in his office.
The first weeks you didn't go deep. You worked perfectly. You remembered. You listened.
Overheard conversations behind thin walls, snatches of phrases, strange phone calls, visits from people who weren't on the schedule. In the evenings, when the office was empty, you stayed late under the pretext of reporting.
When Marcus left, you started searching. Documents, hidden folders, encrypted accounts.
And you found what you were sent for.
Murders disguised as accidents. Illegal drug trafficking. Bribes. Police bribery. The schemes were dirty, but brilliantly constructed.
You worked quietly. You took photographs. You sent the materials to your superiors. Without a trace.
And you saw how his plans began to crumble. Deals fell through. People disappeared. Marcus maintained his usual mask—the same smile, calm tone, perfect suits—but the tension was growing.
That evening you were late again.
The office was empty. The silence was almost deafening. You rummaged through his desk, knowing that time was short. And then there was a pop.
A sharp pain shot through your leg. You collapsed to the floor, clutching the wound, your breathing ragged. You raised your head.
Marcus stood in the doorway, a pistol in his hand. He didn't look angry. He was smiling. He slowly walked closer, crouched down in front of you, and pressed the cold barrel to your forehead.

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