Standing in front of his bedroom mirror, Zev buttoned up the collared white shirt he always wore on client jobs. Donning the shirt, along with his customary black tie, suit, and gloves, always felt like taking off a mask — or, perhaps more accurately, shedding his outer skin. As he tied the silk tie around his neck, he practiced a smile. The correct muscles of his face moved, but the smile never touched his dark blue eyes, which stared back at him with an indifferent coldness that he knew disturbed normal people.

Well, it didn't matter that night. Not for Zev, and not for the man who was going to die.

A knock at his front door interrupted the hitman's thoughts. "Go see who it is," he said aloud, the usual friendly tone of his persona gone and replaced with a steely callousness.

Upon receiving the instruction, his Gengar, Smoke — previously unseen — floated out of the nearby wall and drifted toward the door. Zev strolled after the Pokémon, expecting to need to put the mask back on for his guest. Smoke stuck the front half of his body through the door, giggled in his creepy ghostlike way, then popped back into the apartment, arms waving with delight. Decades as partners meant Zev understood the nuances of the Pokémon's body language and gestures. Smoke's continued good humor indicated that the person on the other side was an ally, inconsequential, oblivious.

Zev opened the door and instantly recognized the bladesmith from Iron Lady Forge. Someone he'd heard Team Rocket could depend on. His face broke out into an easy grin, made easier by the fact that he was actually pleased by her visit.

"Oh!" he exclaimed as he slipped on the mask. "Miss LeFevre, right? Wow, that was a fast delivery. Come in, please!" He opened the door wider and stepped to the side so she could enter. "And please don't mind Smoke. He likes to spook visitors."

Aurelie Lefevre

Zev followed the woman to the table, taking care to stay out of her personal space even as he peered into the open briefcase and laid eyes upon the knives. His smile slowly twisted into a grin of genuine delight as Aurelie rattled off the weapons' characteristics. And he knew she was not lying; he mentally ticked off the very same traits as she mentioned them.

When she picked up one knife for her demonstration, Zev's eyes followed her movements with laser focus. In a split second, he gauged how quickly he could subdue her if she turned the weapon in her hand on him. Not that he was concerned. Most people were harmless, passive, and wouldn't dream of attacking another person. With interest, he watched Aurelie test the knife first against the block of wood, then the sheet of paper. A rare feeling of satisfaction filled him at the impressive display.

Zev's gaze lingered for a moment on the way the woman continued to move the knife through the air — subconsciously, instinctively. Only someone with many hours of practice could handle a weapon with such expertise while idle. Then he turned his attention to the second knife still resting in her briefcase and picked it up. "Beautiful," he said softly as he held it up to the light, admiring its deadly curve and wicked edge.

Then he dropped the mask. Lightning fast, he snapped his arm forward, stabbing the knife into empty air (safely away from Aurelie's direction, of course) and executing what would be a killing blow to an adult male target. Snapping his arm back, he effortlessly switched his grip on the handle and slammed the knife downward, imagining it sliding into a neck just above the clavicle. He stopped himself mid-swing and fell into a fighting stance, most of his weight on his back foot, his grip on the knife changing once again to bring the blade forward. He threw some test stabs, his excitement rising as he realized the weapon was everything the bladesmith promised: perfectly balanced, weighted for his strength, comfortable.

Zev relaxed out of the stance and beamed at Aurelie, eyes bright. (He knew his smile was wrong in that moment, not because it was fake but because it was real, for once. He knew, yet he could not help himself. Because for him, she had done a very good thing indeed.)

"They're perfect," he said to her, his heart racing — not from the physical exertion, but from sheer thrill. And then, without thinking twice, he asked: "Would you like to see them in action? As a real test?" Then, as if remembering himself, he added, "Don't worry. You're not in danger. Rocket's paying me to clean up a problem, and I just thought," his eyes flickered to the way she held the other knife, "you might be itching to put them to use."

Aurelie Lefevre

Zev had not been certain Aurelie would agree, so he relaxed his smile into something a little more reassuring and slid the knife he held into one of the sheaths she'd placed on the table. "There's a Rocket executive of the old guard lurking here in the Lower District, a certain Renart Toussaint," he explained, leaving her side to pick up a pair of black leather gloves from across the living room. All traces of whatever mania had seized him faded from his features as he slipped into strict professionalism. "The people in charge believe that this man still maintains loyalty to Blackwell, and that he's been sharing too much with the wrong people in an effort to undermine the organization. So he must be eliminated."

While speaking, Zev started collecting things from around the apartment: a miniature flashlight, a pocket crowbar, a plain black Rotom Phone, a small case, his wallet, his keys, several Pokéballs. Once everything had disappeared into his pockets, he pulled on a black suit jacket and strapped the sheathed knife to his belt.

"Hold onto that one for now," he said with a glance at the second knife still in Aurelie's hand. "You'll need it. Let's go."

As he led her to the front door of his apartment, Zev extended a Pokéball to the Gengar that still floated nearby. Without waiting for his master's command, Smoke entered the vessel, which Zev promptly returned to his belt.

The two humans exited his apartment and made their way down the side streets and alleys of Slateport's Lower District. Nightfall meant that the area was coming to life, large crowds starting to gather along the main thoroughfares where market vendors hawked food and wares. Zev guided Aurelie away from them. As they approached the tenement housing along the border of the Outskirts, the noise from the main streets dulled into mere background noise.

"He's holing himself up in one of these buildings," Zev explained quietly to Aurelie as they neared the side of one building. A rusted, wrought iron fire escape wound its way along the wall from ground to roof. The assassin pointed at one of the windows alongside the stairs. "Fifth floor. We'll go in through the window." He removed the small crowbar from his pocket and started up the fire escape. "Follow me. Quietly now."

Aurelie Lefevre

The fact that Aurelie kept up with his pace, remained carefully silent, and only hesitated once at the bottom of the fire escape impressed Zev. At the very least, she had a certain measure of courage and the ability to follow his lead without question — both useful in the event he needed an ally for certain operations in the future. The nervousness in her body language and on her face, however, suggested she might not have the stomach for what would happen next.

The door in front of them was open only ajar, and Zev could not ascertain whether the man inside the room faced the entryway or sat with his back to it. He quickly weighed his options. A desk in the way would give Renart Toussaint some defense and time to react. Jumping over a desk was not an option; it would leave Zev wide open to a counterattack. There was really only one possible path forward: let Toussaint come to him.

Zev pressed himself flat against the wall next to the door and motioned Aurelie to stay behind him. Then, staying out of the doorframe as much as possible, he reached over and pushed open the door, hard enough that it banged against the wall inside. The sound of typing immediately ceased.

"What the fuck?" came an older man's voice.

Zev waited and listened. He heard the following sounds: the scrape of wood against wood as the man stood up, slow and cautious footsteps, and the soft click of a gun being cocked.

Tensing every muscle in his body, Zev drew his new combat knife from its sheath. He focused on keeping his breathing measured despite the sudden adrenaline rush that flooded his veins, on the footsteps that grew louder as the target approached. He waited. And waited. And waited.

The floorboards at the threshold creaked. A gun slowly came into view from inside the room. Zev's free hand snapped forward, seizing the wrist that held the gun. In one fluid motion, he stepped inside Toussaint's reach, twisted the hand he'd grabbed so the gun pointed to the ceiling, and stabbed into flesh with his knife. The blade sank between two ribs, but too low: it punctured only a lung, not the heart.

"You—motherfucker!" Toussaint snarled, immediately grabbing Zev's wrist that held the knife and pushing it away from him.

Hands locked, they grappled in the doorway for what seemed like an eternity, Toussaint struggling to point his gun at Zev, Zev trying to wrench his knife hand free. Then Zev shifted his weight and smashed his foot into Toussaint's groin. A roar of rage and agony filled the room, followed by the clatter of the gun hitting the floor. Zev kicked it away down the hall, past Aurelie, then grabbed Touissant by the collar and aimed for the heart this time. But the other man wrenched himself out of Zev's grasp and started down the corridor after the gun.

"Stop him!" Zev snapped at Aurelie.

Aurelie Lefevre

Aurelie's decision to pummel their prey instead of deal a killing blow was not what Zev had envisioned, but he was used to adapting to rapidly changing situations. Thankfully, her aim was true and her strength enough to knock Toussaint to the floor.

Zev stalked toward the prone man like a famished predator. For a second, his gaze met Aurelie's and he saw the question there. She'd had enough, but Zev had to be sure. Kneeling over Toussaint's body, he pressed two fingers against the target's neck, checking for a pulse. Faint and slow. Toussaint was dying. People died swiftly from a punctured lung — four minutes on average.

It was enough. Zev waited out the last minute by wiping the blade of his new knife on the target's shirt and sheathing it. Then, with some effort, he flipped the corpse onto its back, careful not to step in the puddle of blood. The entire front of Toussaint's torso was drenched in his own blood. How many times had Zev seen a corpse? He couldn't count. It didn't matter. With an expression of indifference, he took out his phone and snapped a photo of the dead man's face, then a wider shot of the whole body. He sent these to his client, the one who'd contracted him to kill Toussaint.

"We should exit through the front door of the building," Zev said finally to Aurelie, phone still out as he waited for the reply. "Night's fallen now and we'll have plenty of cover heading back to the main streets. Let's get some food at the night market and pretend we're two friends grabbing dinner, at least until we've guaranteed no one's followed us from here, then you can get your briefcase from my apartment and head home."

His phone buzzed with the reply from his client confirming transfer of payment to his bank account. Zev took the SIM card out of his phone, snapped it in half, and pocketed the tiny pieces.

"Come on, I'll pay," he said as he headed for the door leading to the main hall and stairwell of the building. As he walked, he removed a new SIM card from the small case he'd brought with him and put it into his phone. Then he stopped in the doorway and grinned at Aurelie, once again slipping on the friendly, easygoing mask he usual wore. "I hope you're hungry."

Aurelie Lefevre