To kill... for Lincoln, it meant nothing anymore. The value of life had been carefully partitioned and discarded somewhere along the line, dissolved into the hazy years where killing became his trade, his livelihood. It was never about hatred or revenge—just a job that demanded caution, calculation, and the ability to see the world in strategic steps. This wasn't about emotion; it was about precision. Anticipate. Execute. Disappear. That was the formula.
He'd only laid eyes on the minister once, and it had been from the back of a Detroit rally. The man's voice had rung out passionately, rallying for human rights, his thin frame perched on a crumbling wooden podium. A lone, fraying figure—old, unremarkable, no family, no children—he seemed to believe he belonged to the people, a noble relic. And if it weren't for the target pinned on him, Lincoln might've respected the man's resolve, at least on principle.
Now, standing against the brisk winter wind on an abandoned downtown street, Lincoln pulled his sweatshirt collar higher, burying his face in its folds. The cold cut sharp across his cheekbones, and he relished the excuse to hide his face from view. His face, sharp and angular, was as identifiable as a scarlet letter among the underground. It was the fine white hair, the mark of a man hunted. The agencies after him—the ones who had studied his every movement, his every alias—they'd been stumped, but they knew him by that striking snow-white hair. His anonymity was his safety net, and he knew exactly how to play his part.
Today, he was just another young man drifting home after an exhausting day. His worn grey backpack slung across one shoulder could pass for a student's, stuffed with textbooks and notebooks. The oversized sweatshirt hung loose, lending him the unassuming guise of a teenager. A tram whirred by, its headlights glowing in the dimming twilight, but he didn't board. That, too, was part of the act. He walked on, head down, weaving between shadowed doorways and streetlights.
An economical young man, a stranger might think, saving a few bucks for his future. Maybe he was on his way to a date, planning to impress with some quiet charm.
But Lincoln had never had a girlfriend. Love, friendship, intimacy—they had no place in the life he had chosen. Or perhaps the life that had chosen him. His path had been clear since the day his parents were killed, snatched away in a twist of fate that he hadn't been able to reconcile or forgive. From that point on, his life had spiraled into something different, something dark and cold.
They called him Lincoln Lynn Loud, an infamous name whispered in the back alleys and on the lists of every top agency, stamped across classified briefings with grim precision. They knew him as a chameleon, a man of a thousand faces, skilled in the art of disappearing and reappearing as needed. He was an assassin, a master of blending in and fading out, and his reputation for carefully orchestrated, politically charged hits left a wake of cold bodies and unanswered questions. Government officials, corporate moguls, and power brokers—they all fell with his fingerprints lingering just out of sight.
But he was more than a killer. His hands were on black-market arms trades, data breaches, deep espionage operations, sabotage missions that influenced the invisible cogs of entire governments. Lincoln Lynn Loud was the shadow haunting powerful people across continents, the man who dealt in secrets and traded in whispers.
As he walked, he ran through the plan in his head, as meticulously crafted as a chess game. Tonight, he was simply another face, moving through the night like any other soul.
He ascended the narrow staircase, each step slow and deliberate, until he reached the minister's small apartment in downtown Detroit. It was an unremarkable building, the kind that wore its years like a faded badge, marked by peeling paint and the smell of stale air. Lincoln knew his timing was precise. The minister's secretary, loyal as she was, always left by six-thirty, leaving him alone in this cramped flat. For a public figure, the man lived modestly, perhaps even miserably, like a monk tucked away in the heart of the city.
Lincoln rapped on the door softly, listening for any sign of movement within. A few shuffling sounds, the turn of a bolt, and then it opened a few inches. A woman peered out, scrutinizing him from behind the small gap. She was old, pushing seventy at least, with steel-grey hair that curled tightly around her ears. A thin pince-nez perched on the bridge of her nose, and her face wore the hardened lines of someone who had endured decades of unwelcome visitors. A few gold teeth gleamed when she opened her mouth, and a dark felt hat was balanced on her head, giving her a prim, if severe, appearance. A woolen coat hung over her arm as if she'd been about to leave.
She barely glanced at him before a sneer pulled at her thin lips. "The minister is busy!" she snapped, her voice biting and dismissive, clearly displeased to have a guest at this hour.
Lincoln swallowed the urge to silence her in the most final of ways. She was an innocent, after all—an outsider to the web of intrigue and shadowy dealings that had brought him here. She was not his target, and killing her would only add an unnecessary sin to his list. Instead, he held out an envelope, wordlessly. The woman hesitated, then plucked it from his fingers, holding it at arm's length before squinting at it through her pince-nez.
Good, Lincoln thought. She's near-sighted. No need to worry about her getting too close a look.
"Stay here," she ordered, her tone one of a governess rebuking a wayward student. Her distaste for him was unmistakable, and he imagined she'd much rather be out on the cold streets than standing here with him. She retreated down the hall, her rigid back turned, and he took the opportunity to survey the apartment. His eyes catalogued every detail, mental snapshots filed away: the minister's desk, cluttered with papers; an old sofa sagging with use; a state map tacked to the wall; a door leading to a small restroom; and a wide window that overlooked the frozen street outside. A gas stove was the only source of heat, and it ticked softly in the quiet. On the desk, a small brass clock marked the passing seconds with a rhythmic tick, showing seven o'clock.
A voice called out from another room, breaking the silence. "Ema, go and buy some eggs and salt, while I talk with the gentleman!"
Lincoln's gaze shifted, landing on the minister himself as he emerged from the doorway. Mark Peterson, the man whose policies had infuriated the underground rings of Detroit, was an imposing figure, despite his advanced age. As a political activist with a long history of disruptive pro-human rights efforts, Peterson had rubbed countless people the wrong way. His moralistic ideals and hardline stance on crime and corruption had garnered a few allies but far more enemies. His influence was undeniable, even if his lifestyle suggested otherwise.
The secretary—Ema, apparently—huffed in displeasure but didn't argue, brushing past Lincoln with a cold, final look. He barely noticed her departure, his focus shifting to Peterson, who stood with hands clasped, staring at him with an almost paternal scrutiny.
"Mr. Peterson," Lincoln nodded, the name leaving his lips without warmth or respect.
Peterson looked him over with a practiced eye. "I have little time for pleasantries, young man. So, what's your purpose here tonight?"
Lincoln's eyes flicked around the room once more, taking in the details he needed to cement his plan. The gas stove was sputtering with a low flame. A single lamp cast soft shadows across the cramped space. He had memorized the layout, calculated his angles, considered every move.
"Just here to discuss a matter of urgent importance, Mr. Peterson," he replied evenly, his voice carefully controlled.
Lincoln had been hired to take out targets before, but this one puzzled him. Mark Peterson, an elderly minister known for his relentless speeches against corruption, should've been an easy mark. How the mobsters in Detroit hadn't managed it was beyond him. The man had little protection—a single doorman who barely glanced up as Lincoln walked through the lobby. The poor fool only had a relic LeMat revolver strapped to his belt, probably more for show than for any real defense. Lincoln's conclusion was simple: the mob wanted the minister gone, but they didn't want their fingerprints on it.
The minister was seated in his cramped office, a weak table lamp casting pale light over stacks of loose papers. When Lincoln entered, Peterson turned with a forced smile, his voice sharp but steady.
"Have a seat," Peterson said, gesturing to a chair opposite his desk. "I assume you're here with information on the crime syndicate operating in this area? I've waited long enough to see their downfall."
Lincoln didn't miss a beat, setting his backpack on the floor beside him. "Of course. The evidence is all here," he replied evenly. His hand moved to the bag, fingers grazing the cool metal of his weapon—a custom-fitted, silenced Heckler & Koch USP. It was small, deadly, and as reliable as his own heartbeat.
"Please, take your time," Peterson said, nodding earnestly. "I'll just need to retrieve a few documents from the chancellery." The minister turned to reach for a stack of folders by the window.
With the gun now drawn and steady in his hands, Lincoln took aim, his focus narrowing to two precise spots over Peterson's chest, just above the lower ventricle. If hit there, the man would be dead in seconds—a clean, quiet end.
The minister glanced back just as he picked up his papers, his smile freezing, his face draining of color as he registered the weapon aimed at him. The folders slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor.
"W-what is the meaning of this?" Peterson stammered, his eyes wide, hands rising instinctively as if they could ward off what was coming.
Lincoln's expression remained blank, his voice calm, devoid of warmth. "Nothing personal, Mr. Peterson. But you're a problem that needs solving."
Before the man could utter another word, Lincoln squeezed the trigger twice. The muffled shots punctured the silence, both bullets sinking precisely into Peterson's chest, shattering the heart within seconds. Peterson's last moments were filled with the sight of those cold, calculating eyes, staring at him without a trace of remorse.
In silence, Lincoln holstered his weapon, turned, and left the office, his footsteps fading as the minister slumped to the floor, his eyes forever open, fixed on nothing.