It was a starless night. The moon climbed high in the dark sky, its shining face only barely within view as the clouds lingered above. Below, the New York skyline glittered across the water. Few people remained on the streets, the late – or early – hour during a weekday no less contributing to the unusualness of the night. Along the streets, rarely a car drove by. A lone cyclist pedaled up a hill, and if not for the minute creaking and scattering of animals striding quickly through the concrete jungle, there would be no life.

Deep in the heart of Manhattan, an owl perched on a great oak tree. Its orange eyes were wide, watching with care. It had trained its eyes on a scurrying movement at the roots. There, a tail was seen, and then a whisker next. Yet the owl waited. Waited until the moment came that the rodent, in its sudden boldness, moved cautiously towards the lure of food. It stood still, hunched over its find, whiskers moving hyperactively as it quickly devoured the tiny seed. There was a moment, its nose lifted, sniffing the air, and yet it scented nothing in the air.

Without a sound, the owl glided below. There was a shrill squeak of pain, then silence came upon the street once more.

However, silence was always a rarity in the city.

Suddenly, a man hurtled around the corner of the street, his thick tree-trunk legs pumping with fervor as he ran. He turned left into the alley, looking over his shoulder. Seeing no one hardly stilled his panic, his eyes shining with pure fear, his mouth open and panting in the night as he evaded an unseen foe.

He continued running down the alley, his footsteps loud as he ran full tilt in his fear. He looked over his shoulder once, twice more, and finally the evidence before his eyes seemed to assuage his panic. He slowed to a trot, and looked ahead, then behind. No one was there. He let out a breath of relief, but in that next second, he thought he saw a bright flash of light at the corner of his eyes and heard an engine revving, and before he could react, a gargantuan pain collided into him.

The impact threw him over the vehicle, and he dropped to the ground unconscious.

The headlights shone a bright white. A figure stepped out of the black sedan, and with a slow, casual gait, the lean muscled hunter strode over to the man and yanked the limp body up and onto the hood of the car. The hunter, dressed in black, face covered, delivered a lightning-fast strike upon the man's face, jolting him into consciousness.

The instant his eyes opened and looked upon the masked face of his aggressor, released a shrill cry of fear. That would not do. The hunter grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him onto the hood, his neck whipping back as the back of his head hit the windshield with a bone-crunching crack.

"I don't know anything, I swear!" He screamed. Tears streamed down his face, blood seeping from the back of his skull and on his hands.

"I'm not interested in playing games." The distorted voice snapped, green eyes cold and calculating as the dark figure struck him a third time across the face.

"I only know what the Don tells Antonio, I swear I only know that much!" The man shrieked, pleading and begging until the hunter grew remarkably irate. Without a word, the hunter reached behind their belt, and pulled out a handgun, silencer already screwed onto the barrel of the weapon. The sight of the pistol only reduced the man to more tears and pleading, and the hunter was finished with this shit.

The dark figure pointed the weapon at his head, finger already closing in on the trigger. "I'll give you three seconds to give me what I want, or I'll make you beg for death." The man' s brown eyes widened, and his mouth opened, yet for all his cowardice and his will to live, nothing came out but what the hunter had known before. "I only know the shipments come in twice a week in freight containers."

The hunter rolled their eyes, and promptly withdrew the weapon, to the man's momentary relief. That relief was quickly dashed when instead the hunter pointed at his leg, and shot out his kneecap. The scream of pain was quickly silenced by direct punch to his face, sending teeth and blood flying in the air. "It seems that you like to waste time, time I don't have." The hunter coldly returned the weapon to the back of their belt, only to replace it with a knife in their gloved hand. "Tell me what I want to know."

"Fuck you!" The man screamed this time, and the hunter hid their momentary surprise at his boldness, before casually plunging the knife into his hand. Before he could make any other noise, she delivered a swift uppercut, followed by a jab that knocked him off the car completely. As he fell, he attempted to crawl away, but his injured leg did not get him farther than an inch, and the hunter easily caught up, stomping on the knife still puncturing his hand. In the next second, the hunter kicked the man in the stomach, the action flipping him onto his back. The hunter raised an eyebrow at him, and this time there was no fooling around.

The hunter reached down and retrieved the knife, and as he shrieked in pain, the dark figure only moved to wipe the man's blood off the blade and onto his pants leg without a care in the world. "Well I enjoyed this talk, thanks for the hunt." The hunter looked down imperiously at their prey, and in that instant they saw the man's fortitude crack.

"The drugs are stored in the mattresses!" He shouted, and this caught the hunter's attention. Desperate to make a case for his life, he continued, "The Don's furniture business is just a front for smuggling the drugs in the mattresses when at sea." The hunter made an uninterested noise at the back of their throat, and he shouted "The Customs guys who check the containers are with us! We own them!" Tears were flowing freely down his face. "Please, please don't kill me! I have a wife and two boys!"

"Well maybe you should have thought of them before you decided to get in bed with the Mafia." The hunter growled, delivering a heavy blow to his head, knocking him out.

The hunter sheathed the knife, and with practiced hands began to empty the man's jacket and pants pockets. Finding a wallet, the hunter carelessly threw it over their shoulder, continuing to rummage through the man's belongings. Coming across a cellphone, the hunter finally released a sigh of success, and stood, leaning against the car.

Nimble fingers navigated the phone, going through call history, contacts, and text messages. The hunter was ready to call it a night when a new message flashed across the screen. The hunter opened the message, and a sudden fear gripped the hunter's heart.

Anya Rivers, confirmed missing. No sign in months. Collect payment.

The hunter bagged the phone, and quickly jumped into the sedan, driving off into the distance and leaving the limp body behind.

Once in the car, the hunter removed the mask and the voice distorter. Her eyes were murky with fear, and she pressed the call button on the steering wheel, desperate to confirm something she had hoped was not true.

"This is Delmar."

"Director, this is Agent Costia Woods-Griffin." She inhaled shakily. "Your agent, Anya Rivers, when's the last time she's contacted her handler?"

"Not for months." The Director responded. There was a pause, then "What did you find?"

"A text message stating that she hasn't been seen, and that the Don wants a payment to be collected."

There was a flurry of curse words on the other line, then "You need to come in."