The walls of the decrepit factory shuddered as the doors burst open, letting in the sound of the city burning. The old assassin whirled around.

“Ah, its you, old friend.” He let his hand fall from his dagger, then leaned against a mossy pillar.

“Its been a while.” The cloaked figure straightened himself. The same deep baritone on the radio: always assuring that things were getting better, that the water would recede.

“Shut the doors, will you? The floodwater’s coming in.”

“I need a favor, Chan.” The doors slammed shut, and the man turned back stiffly. “Listen – I have to leave now. I need someone to hold back the rioters for the next sixty minutes.”

“Ah.” The assassin ran his fingers down the ugly tracks across his face, distracted. He sighed. “Why trust your life to a lonely old man?”

The figure was looking past him now.

“Alright – anything for you, Premier,” the assassin bowed, grimacing.

“Just this one last time – for old time’s sake.”