The Fourth Bullet

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The day could have been worse, but he knew what he was supposed to do to make things right. Vivek was a high-profile assassin, ruling North Osman for the past 25 years — a well-mannered man who felt his mind was in his fifties. The two conditions he always made his clients promise were clear: no children, no animals would be harmed. The third and final rule was: if it goes beyond three bullets, the issue becomes personal from that point onward.

That’s what happened today. Three shots took out window glass, a plant pot, and a Buddha statue. How could he possibly be alive? What happens to the 25 years of experience? What did I miss? Those were the questions racing through his head. He took exactly ten seconds to think and answer himself. He got the answer at the ninth second. He knew. He knew what he had done.

Breathing became hard. Fear crept in and sweat started rolling down his face. He was standing on the 18th floor of a well-known construction building. The target lay in a pool of blood. He was dead. Neither of Vivek’s bullets had gone through the target’s body — it had been someone else’s bullets. Someone had killed the target. Vivek knew who did it.

The moment he fired the last shot, which smashed the Buddha statue, he turned the sniper to the extreme left and peered through the scope. He knew someone from that left corner had struck the target at the right time. Who was that? An assassin? Someone seeking revenge? Maybe a little peek would help. The moment he saw the third man, his heart lurched — he was taken aback and stopped looking through the lens. He knew what he had seen.

The image of the third man who killed the target was unreal. Vivek couldn’t believe his eyes. The man looked exactly like the target. Now what? “Tonight or never” looped in his mind. Who could it be? He had never killed anyone off the record. But this time he had to make a move. There was no time for clarity, no time for proof. Was the third man the target, or was the man in the pool of blood the target — the one he hadn’t killed? Three bullets had been fired; this had become personal.

He reloaded. Pointed the sniper at the third man. Taking a deep breath, he knew what he had to do: right in the head. His final bullet was ready to land. The only thing holding him back was timing. The right time is what assassins always fear, though they never admit it. He took the shot.

The bullet pierced the third man’s skull — blood splashing everywhere. The blood on the wall behind him looked like a painting worth more than that man’s life. He was dead. So were the principles of our protagonist. The myth of becoming an assassin with principles was burned that very night. Humans do evolve, but not as fast as an AI.

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