Yi Qiang, work name One, felt his fingers tense by instinct. His body lay completely still, not a single muscle twitch or sign of unrest plaguing his shrouded body.

Take the shot. For China, for everywhere. For me. Come on.

I am currently aiming at my 'father'. What did he do to put the both of us here?

My father is China's most influential leader, as well as China's most traitorous citizen.

I work as a professional sniper, aiding and protecting my homeland of Hangzhou, and China in general, by working for the Chinese Ministry of National Defense of the People's Republic of China. Mouthful of a name, simple goal: defend China.

And I certainly have the skills to do so. Since I was five, my 'father' spent a large sum of money - even for him - to train me to become a ruthless killing machine, a terrifyingly effective machine at his beck and call, knowing only one thing: death. I was trained by experts across the world in all sorts of ranged weapons, from handguns and sniper rifles to the bow and arrow. He did this all in hopes of having me work as a hitman for his world-renowned company, DIO, or Digital Innovation Organization. Simple name, endless goals.

It would have been perfect. An absolute and utter success. Except for one thing.

It was inevitable that my 'father', in his emotionless scheming, had not planned for the one thing he had attempted to beat out of me(and almost succeeded) – emotion. No, I hated my father since the moment I knew what the word meant.

Fifteen years after I was born, he merged his prestigious company with the government, thus gaining a seat in the recently developed Chinese National Council. He started ordering me around on that birthday, deeming me skilled enough to start going on practical missions. I had graduated from my training, he said, and was ready to put those skills to use. In terms of practical and theoretical knowledge, I was unrivaled within the world, but experience-wise, I was barely better than a greenhorn. It was like I had all the tools I needed, as sharp and as durable as I would ever need them, and just had to learn how to use them. Such intensive training pushes the self to its limits, whether that was its point or not, so I was ready in mind, body, and soul. At least, to work for anyone except my 'father'.

He pushed incredibly high standards onto me. He did not tolerate even one mistake, regardless of whether or not it affected the outcome of the mission. One slip-up, one false shot, and I would be beaten within an inch of my life. How did they do this when I was one of the greatest martial artists in the world? Suffice to say that the Chinese government had, and still has quite a few resources.

It compounded. I was forced to go on missions the day after my punishment, in a state that would unanimously be described as 'bedridden'. And when I slipped up because of that, I was all but crippled. There were multiple points where I was quite disabled and unable to move. I still don't remember just how I got out of that trench, how I broke free of that vicious cycle.

I quickly became very good at my job. It was hard not to when the punishment of not doing so was so severe. And through my suffering, I became 18. Three years of near-endless pain had toughened me mentally and physically, far beyond the standards any 18-year-old should ever meet.

18 years of age was a benchmark, a life-changing opportunity. Why? Because I could now do things independently from my 'father', without any legal binding to him. Within the first day, I quit from his services and left. He had not expected this at all for several reasons:

Firstly, he had given me many benefits while I was under his command, and would only promise more in the future. I had the budget to buy quite literally anything that was for sale, excellent social connections, and a promising future. Secondly, the difficulty of the missions was nothing much for me. Honestly, any assassination request held no distinction from the other in terms of difficulty. So, there was no reason for me to turn to other organizations in search of easier missions. Thirdly, and most importantly, my 'father' was born and raised a cold-blooded, ruthless, unfeeling man, never really understanding emotions other than from an objective standpoint. The value of feelings was greatly diminished in his eyes and was only a small factor in his great web of plots and schemes. That was his downfall.

It wasn't that I caught him completely off-guard, though. He had planned for the scenario of me leaving the company. I was just more skilled than he ever could have imagined. On the second day, utilizing all my now-deteriorating connections, I arranged a high-level job with a faction who had power equal to that of my 'father', the Ministry of National Defense of the People's Republic of China.

In two short months, I gained the nickname 'One Shot', or Yi Qiang, which quickly took over my real name and became my moniker. I quickly forgot my given name, but that's neither here nor there. What's important is that word of my prowess spread across the organization, and I rapidly became incomparably sharp blade the Ministry wielded. With this new reputation and ranking, I gained access to the organization's widespread information channels.

That meant nothing until two years quickly passed, and I learned what my 'father' had planned through the spies that we had planted.

He was planning a tradeoff of all the valuable information he had to the country China was currently at war with: America.

Which leads me to the current moment.

Objectively, the choice was clear. Yi Qiang thought it through once more in his mind. Then, unbidden by his conscious mind, and instead driven by all the hate and resentment of many years past, his practiced finger gently squeezed the trigger.

The moment the muffled click reached his ears, Yi Qiang went through the practiced motions: he placed the specially-made rifle on his back in its case, standing up. All while the head of his 'father', the man who raised him, was pierced through by a bullet. A bullet he had sent.

And that was it. Surprisingly, Yi Qiang felt a trace of melancholy at the sight of his 'father' collapsing to the ground, bleeding from his head. The experienced marksman had been so closely acquainted with death that seeing his targets' demise no longer struck a chord in his heart. No longer did he feel any sorrow at having killed, no longer did the sight of their lifeforce seeping into the ground affect him. That's why he was surprised when he felt ever-so-slightly sad at the sight of his birth father's death.

Why? Perhaps Yi Qiang would never know.

But when he saw the ultimate goal in his life accomplished, the final event in his career, the denouement, Yi Qiang felt a sense of weariness crashing down on him. An ocean of it.

He was but 21, but Yi Qiang had seen much and done much. A world of blood was on his hands. Ever since young, he had wielded the reaper's scythe, severing threads of life like they meant nothing. And however cruel his father was, he had instilled into Yi Qiang one lesson. Never let emotion into work.

And that meant that never before had a single ounce of feeling encroached upon his fortified mind, and never before had he questioned what he'd done.

But it seemed that killing his father was the impetus for that change.

And with nothing more to do, Yi Qiang hopped down from his hiding spot.

The security guards, now huddled over his father's corpse, quickly spotted him and efficiently detained him.

That was how Yi Qiang found himself in prison. The proceedings all went by quickly, and it was a normal case. In 2052, all rights were removed from normal citizens in China, so there was no trial. Sure, if he wanted to escape punishment, it was easy with his connections, but Yi Qiang had indeed given up.

As for why no one pursued the death of his father, that was simple. As a ruthless, cruel, and emotionless man, Yi Qiang's father was not well-liked. He maintained social prevalence only through fear and intimidation. As a result, nobody mourned his death it was a relief. The American government likely had something to say about it, but the war-preoccupied country had more important things to do.

And so Yi Qiang sat there, in his cell, face completely blank.