My line of work has no legit name. “Mercenary” doesn’t convey even a glimpse. “A murky business specialist” or “a master of elegant solutions” can’t be found in any official registry. Those who understand the value of subtlety come to me. The rest? They rely on poison or sniper rifles — crude tools that leave long shadows of consequences. I’m not here to show off or play hero. I design outcomes. Accidents, coincidences, or nothing at all, that’s what they see after all.
I staged a fight just to slip into the circle of a cyber-augmented champion — and challenge him later in the ring, where a hidden exploit would dismantle his inner armor better than any brute force.
I’ve walked into corporate arenas and left without a scratch — while others were too busy tearing each other apart to notice the real game.
I’ve dismantled impenetrable security by planting just the right words in someone’s heart — using lust as a Trojan horse.
I’ve dived into places where even machines fail, facing things that don’t belong to reason, and came back with what I needed — though not unscarred.
I’ve flown the skies in a borrowed stewardess uniform, secured by the whispered promise to the right pilot. Just to stage a little sky oddity upon landing.
When I’m in play, fate isn’t a sacred sequence — it’s an interference pattern born from countless initiating ripples.
Every job is a story, but my mark is the absence of one.
