The youth stood motionless, eyes closed, in the centre of a large, white room. Though the room was brightly illuminated by rows of white lamps across the ceiling, the absence of windows suggested it was underground. Each corner of the room featured its own fighting ring, unique in size. A path emerged from a wall, connecting all four rings and defining the perimeter of the grassy field in the center of the room.

It was in the middle of this field that the boy stood, surrounded on all four sides by humanoid robots. The boy breathed slowly, letting his chest rise and fall. Without opening his eyes, he took a stance. Suddenly, the robots lunged forward with inhuman speed. The boy responded in kind, dashing toward the robot in front of him. To the untrained observer, it might have seemed the boy had teleported; before the robot had even fallen to the ground, its knee crushed, the boy had changed targets. He launched a right hook at the robot that had been behind him half a second earlier.

Despite its programmed speed of 20 meters an instant, the robot struggled to react in time. It managed to raise its arm in a gesture of defense, only to fly through the air and land 30 meters away. The carcass rolled to a gentle stop against the wall.

The two remaining robots had already prepared a countermove. They rushed the boy, attempting to catch his head in a complex pincer attack. He smirked. In one smooth motion, the boy caught two pairs of robotic legs.

Opening his eyes for the first time, he appeared to be disappointed. He assessed the dismembered robots on the ground. Then he sighed, squeezed the white limbs in his hands, and snapped each metal tibia in half. He threw the extra pieces at his immobilized enemies.

An onlooker might have concluded the boy was a monster in a child’s body. Even if the enemies were only Robotized Training Dummies, or RTDs, the boy’s ruthlessness was extraordinary. The same could be said of his strength.

Luckily, the robots were capable of self-repair, even though it could take a while, depending on the level of sustained damage. These were only a few of many RTDs located in the south wall of this underground room resembling a gym.

The boy stood in place for a minute, lost in thought. A range of emotions flickered through his eyes. His fists clenched, then relaxed at his sides.

Wearing a stoic expression once more, he stepped over to the RTD that lay motionless against the wall. Its metal head had been noticeably dented. A human suffering a comparable blow would have been dead before he realized he’d been hit.

The boy ignored the training robot, tapping twice on the white wall in front of him. The surface of the wall was transformed into a black screen. The boy pressed his hand against the screen, waiting until the display flashed “Identity Verified: Nathan Umbris.” The wall opened and shut behind him.

Nathan now stood in a much smaller room. With its table and chairs, it could have been a living room if not for the katanas, daggers, swords, and bows hanging from the white walls. Nathan collapsed into a chair, gulping down a bottle of water left on the table.

He squeezed the empty bottle, his face crumpling with the plastic in his hands. With a scream, he threw it against the wall. He jumped up, panting, then collapsed to the ground in tears.

***

Somewhere in the capital, a man sat behind a wooden table littered with papers. He held up two documents for close inspection, then clicked his tongue and threw them to the floor. He picked up another paper, a transcript, and remembered last night’s call.

“Dr. Moore, I’m sorry, but under the current circumstances, unless I want to endanger this whole operation, I will have to cease any and all communication.”

“Of course. I fully understand. I was actually thinking of asking you to stop contacting me. It might be for the better. However, before I hang up, I would like to ask you something. And please, be completely honest. What are the chances that I will be able to survive the next month?”

Silence. It was far more chilling than any answer.

After an eternity, a laconic voice said, “Slim to none.”

This was no surprise to Dr. Moore, but his hands trembled all the same. He raised his hands to support his head, taking a breath to steady himself before he responded.

“I thought as much. But hearing it from the likes of yourself makes it a lot worse. Anyway, thank you for your sincerity and cooperation. I wish you luck and thank you for what you’ve done for this country and for the world.”

Dr. Moore felt the phone slip out of his hand. His most agonizing fear was not for his life, he realized. He feared the inability to accomplish his goal. His gaze wandered as he contemplated his life decisions.

The room itself was an elegant study, with exquisite bookshelves filled with such titles as The Dangers of Contracting Murderers and The Preliminary Thesis of Murder. Many of the books lining the shelves bore his name.

Dr. Moore’s gaze wandered to the window overlooking the bustling city. Even now, past midnight, the city continued its unending stream of activity. Trains zipped past, replacing most of the cars from previous years.

'Such an efficient system of travel,' Dr. Moore thought to himself. 'So efficient that no one cares how corrupt Interpolis is.'

Corruption was the primary reason the Assassin Practice still existed. It was much easier to kill your adversary than to outsmart him, after all.

A sudden knock on the door brought Dr. Moore back to reality.

“Please, come in.”

The door slowly opened, and a young woman entered. In her late 20s, with long blonde hair and a model’s figure, she could easily have been hired for her appearance alone. But as Dr. Moore’s personal assistant, her law degree and her views on the Assassin Practice proved more valuable.

“Dr. Moore, your wife and children are waiting for you at the dinner table. Should I tell them that you won’t be coming today, again?”

“No need for that, Dayla. I’ll be right there.”

There was a tinge of fear in his voice.