A Hitman's Guide To Becoming A Hero

The soft whistle of the stainless steel kettle was the only sound breaking the morning calm of the apartment.

Sunlight spilled across the kitchen tiles in warm, golden rectangles. Nicholas stood by the counter in a clean black t-shirt, pouring hot water over freshly ground dark roast. For a man who had commanded absolute supremacy over the underworld in another life—a phantom sovereign whose bank balances in numbered Swiss accounts had made nine-figure sums look like trivial accounting errors—this quiet domestic rhythm was the only luxury that truly mattered. Seventy million dollars was a fine cushion to pay for Katie’s private tutoring and Marina’s college tuition, but the simple, undisturbed peace of an early morning was what he guarded with his life.

The tranquility shattered with a discordant, high-pitched chime.

Every smartphone and personal terminal in the living room buzzed simultaneously, vibrating against tabletops with the aggressive, pulsing frequency reserved for Class-A emergency civil broadcasts.

From the master bedroom, Marina pushed the door open, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She was already holding her phone, her thumb rapidly scrolling through a deluge of breaking notifications.

"Nicholas?" Her voice was tight, the drowsy fog vanishing instantly from her expression. "Turn on the screen. Now."

Nicholas didn’t rush. He set the glass carafe down on a silicone coaster, picked up the remote from the breakfast bar, and tapped the display.

The wall-mounted holographic television flickered to life. Instead of the cheerful morning anchors or the usual post-tournament debate panels, the screen was plastered with a stark, flashing crimson banner:

[BREAKING NEWS: MASSACRE IN DISTRICT 4 COMMERCIAL ALLEY]

[SUSPECT IDENTIFIED: TOURNAMENT FINALIST ’PHANTOM’ AT LARGE]

The broadcast cut immediately to raw, unedited municipal security footage. The timestamp in the corner read 02:14:08 AM.

Under the cold, greasy glow of an alley streetlight, a man clad in a dark combat jacket and reinforced shoulder guards stepped smoothly out of the shadows. The camera caught the unmistakable silhouette: the lean build, the dark hair damp with rain, and the unblinking gaze staring out from above a black tactical collar. In under five seconds of blinding, mechanical brutality, the figure executed four private security escorts with cold-steel precision, broke the neck of an unarmed corporate executive, and turned deliberately toward the high-definition lens.

For three full seconds, the killer stared straight into the camera, letting the rain wash the blood from his cheekbone, leaving an undeniable, high-resolution visual footprint before vanishing into the night.

The broadcast cut back to the newsroom, where the anchor looked visibly shaken.

"—authorities are urging all citizens to remain indoors. Following the catastrophic data leaks from the Vance estate, civil unrest has reached unprecedented levels, and this sudden, unprovoked slaughter by the very operative who neutralized Malik Vance has thrown the regional council into total disarray. The Hero Association has mobilized rapid-response strike teams to locate the rogue contractor—"

A live ticker of aggregated social media commentary rolled across the bottom of the display at blinding speed:

[Iron_Sentry: He was never a hero! He’s an unpowered psycho who took out Vance just to eliminate the competition!]

[CivicWatch_09: First the Association hides war crimes, now their contracted ’savior’ is butchering people in alleyways?!]

[Nova_Fall: So heroes now attack civilians? We aren’t safe anywhere!]

[Vanguard_Loyal: Arrest him! Put him down before he hits another district!]

The fragile public trust that had already been fractured by Malik’s posthumous revelations was now disintegrating into hysteria. The man who had stood as the absolute pinnacle of unpowered human capability was now being painted as an indiscriminate butcher.

From the hallway, Katie emerged in her pajamas, clutching Leo’s spiral-bound notebook to her chest. She stared at the giant screen, her big brown eyes widening in sheer disbelief as she watched the video replay loop for the third time.

"That’s... that’s not true," Katie said, her voice trembling before hardening into a sharp, furious shout. "That is NOT Big brother!"

She marched over to the television, pointing an accusing finger at the screen as if she could scold the news anchor through the glass.

"Big brother was sleeping in his bed! Big brother made chicken last night and told me I could only bring two and a half notebooks on vacation! He didn’t go into any stupid alleyway, and he didn’t hurt those people! They are lying! They are all stupid, blind liars!"

Tears of angry frustration welled in the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall, her small fists clenched tight at her sides. To Katie, the man on the screen was a grotesque parody of the brother who checked her homework and patched her scraped knees.

Marina walked over, resting a gentle hand on Katie’s trembling shoulder, but her gaze remained locked on Nicholas. Her face was pale, the quiet anxiety in her eyes betraying the weight of the situation.

"Nicholas," Marina murmured, her voice barely above a whisper so as not to upset Katie further. "You were here all night. I know you were. But the entire continent just saw your face. The Association is going to come knocking with heavy artillery in minutes."

Nicholas didn’t respond immediately.

He stood by the counter, holding his ceramic mug of black coffee, his expression completely vacant of panic, outrage, or fear. To an observer, he looked mildly inconvenienced, like a man observing an unexpected rain shower before a morning commute.

In his previous life, Nicholas had stood at the absolute zenith of the assassination world. He had orchestrated sovereign coups, forged airtight alibis that baffled global intelligence agencies, and hunted master impersonators across four continents. He knew the art of murder better than anyone alive, and he knew that every human body possessed an unalterable, biomechanical rhythm.

He stared at the looping footage of the killer in the alley.

Frame 104 to 118.

Nicholas took a slow sip of hot coffee, his lone visible eye narrowing as his mind broke down the footage into micro-measurements.

Weight distribution: When the impostor stepped through the puddle to sever the lead guard’s jugular, his center of gravity was slightly too far back—favoring the right heel by approximately three degrees. Nicholas’s center of gravity was drilled to rest perpetually on the balls of his feet, balanced fifty-fifty across the pelvic girdle to allow immediate omnidirectional shifts.

Gait and blade retrieval: When the double threw the combat knife into the third guard, his shoulder dropped half an inch prior to release, telegraphing the kinetic transfer. Nicholas never dropped his shoulder; his releases were generated entirely from the latissimus dorsi and the wrist snap to eliminate visual cues.

The kill shot: The double had hoisted the executive by the throat with raw, physical brute force, slamming him against the brick wall. Nicholas never wasted kinetic energy on theatrical slams when a simple, two-ounce carotid pinch achieved silent, instantaneous cerebral hypoxia.

The physical likeness was near-perfect. The clothes, the hair, the facial proportions, even the dark cloth wrap across the eye were an exact match. But the mechanical soul beneath the skin was a replica. An extraordinarily skilled one, trained to mirror his broadcasted movements from the tournament, but fundamentally lacking the lethal, instinctual economy that only Nicholas possessed.

"Big brother?" Katie tugged at the hem of his black shirt, her voice small and pleading. "Tell Marina you’re not going anywhere. Tell her we’re still going to the beach."

Nicholas looked down at his little sister. The cold, analytical detachment in his eye softened into something steady and reassuring. He reached out and rested his calloused palm against her head, gently ruffling her messy hair.

"We are going to the beach, Katie," Nicholas said, his voice as calm and immovable as a mountain. "Nobody is canceling the vacation."

He looked past her, meeting Marina’s worried gaze.

"Marina, pack the rest of your bags and keep the blinds drawn. If anyone knocks who isn’t wearing an association supervisor badge, do not open the door."

"Who did this, Nicholas?" Marina asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Who would frame you like this?"

"Someone who thinks they understand how I move," Nicholas replied coldly, setting his empty mug into the sink with a soft click.

He walked down the hall to his bedroom, his mind already calculating the tactical perimeter around their apartment complex. If the Association wanted to send execution squads based on a sloppy forgery, they were welcome to try. But whoever had put on his face to butcher civilians in the dark had just made a fatal calculation error.

They thought they were mimicking a dangerous mercenary.

They had no idea they had just stolen the identity of the world’s greatest apex hitman—and Nicholas never allowed an amateur to ruin his reputation.

[A/N: Second Chapter might be delayed a bit, my apologies. Thanks for reading!]

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