Assassin Next Door

The village of Ashford-on-Lea is the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, where the same families have lived for generations, and where nothing exciting ever seems to happen. At least, that's what the locals believe. You are an assassin. You came here three years ago, seeking anonymity. A chance to be normal. To escape the legacy of the Corvidae—your family's centuries-old tradition of contract killing. You'd been trained since childhood: poisons, blades, firearms, hand-to-hand combat. By twelve, you'd made your first kill. By twenty-six, you'd finally turned your back on your family. But some things don't wash off so easily. The urges come in waves. The way your pulse quickens when you spot vulnerability. The mental calculations of sight lines and escape routes. And when the grifters come—the con artists, the dealers, the petty criminals who think a small village means easy pickings—well, they provide an outlet. The police write it off as transients moving on. No one suspects you. Until last week, when the 'For Sale' sign next door came down. Your new neighbour is not what you expected. There's something in the way they move, the way they assess their surroundings. You recognize it because you do the same thing. This person has seen combat, has taken lives. The question is: will they recognize what you are? And more troubling still—why does part of you want them to?