The Bluehaven Mariner

Date: January 11, 2025
Time: 9:30 PM

The night stretched endlessly over the ocean, a deep, swallowing void. There was no moon, only the dim reflection of golden lights flickering on the waves, cast by a massive private cruise ship slicing through the water.

The vessel, a floating kingdom of excess, carried one of the wealthiest and most dangerous men in the world, Edward Albrecht.

To the world, Albrecht was a celebrated philanthropist, a man whose donations built hospitals, funded charities, and supported global initiatives. A self-made billionaire known for his generosity.

But that was the mask.

Beneath the carefully crafted image was something rotten.

Albrecht’s so-called charities were nothing more than elaborate fronts for money laundering.

The hospitals he funded became testing grounds for illicit medical experiments. And the so-called humanitarian efforts?

A means to smuggle weapons into war zones and traffic power where no one was looking.

Tonight, Albrecht had gathered some of the most influential figures in his network politicians, war profiteers, crime lords, all under the guise of a weekend retreat.

Deals would be made. Alliances strengthened. Millions exchanged over glasses of aged wine and the illusion of civility.

Unbeknownst to him, death had already boarded.

The Descent

High above, a black stealth jet glided silently in the ship’s wake. It was invisible to radar, cloaked in the abyss of night.

Inside, Kielran Vauxvermil stood at the open hatch, staring down at his prey.

This was just another mission. Another name on a long list of people who needed to be erased. He had done this countless times before. He would not fail.

"Maintain course," he commanded through his earpiece, adjusting the straps of his gear.

"If I don’t make it, complete the mission."

A brief silence followed before one of his men responded, "With all due respect, sir, that’s not an option. You never fail."

Kielran didn’t reply. There was no need to. His reputation preceded him.

Without another word, he dropped.

The wind howled as he plummeted, his black suit clinging tightly to his frame. The ocean rushed closer, cold, merciless.

He waited until the last possible moment before engaging his grappling line.

The hook shot out, latching onto the ship’s metallic frame. The sudden jolt nearly dislocated his shoulder, but he didn’t waver. With a practiced motion, he swung inward, landing smoothly on the deck.

No one saw him. No alarms. No shouts.

Ghostlike.

The Infiltration

Kielran swiftly stripped off his gear, revealing a custom black suit underneath. He adjusted the gloves that hid his fingerprints, straightened his tie, and slid a dagger from its sheath and silencer inside his jacket.

Kielran stepped into the ballroom, his presence unnoticed yet deliberate. The room was a display of power, billionaires in tailored suits, their laughter hollow, their conversations veiled in deceit.

These were the men who wore philanthropy like a mask, their true faces stained with corruption.

He moved with precision, blending effortlessly. A passing waiter offered him a glass of champagne. He accepted but never drank.

“First time at one of these?” A man beside him smirked, swirling his whiskey.

Kielran gave a slow nod. “Just observing.”

The man chuckled. “Then you’ll miss the real meeting. Edward keeps the important guests upstairs.”

His target was on the upper balcony.

He had memorized the ship’s layout down to the smallest detail. Every corridor, every escape route, every blind spot. There was no room for mistakes.

As he walked silently his earpiece buzzed.

"Sir, visual confirms high-security presence. Intel shows at least thirty men stationed around the target. Orders?"

Kielran barely hesitated. "I don’t need thirty bullets."

He moved forward.

The Silent Kill

The corridors were dimly lit, the air thick with expensive cologne and the distant clinking of glasses. Laughter and music echoed through the walls, they had no idea a storm was coming.

Kielran moved like a phantom, slipping past security cameras and into blind spots. He had studied their positions, knew the exact intervals they rotated.

Two guards patrolled the lower decks. He struck fast.

The first one never saw the blade. A flicker of silver in the dark, a silent slit across the throat. A choked gasp, then nothing.

The second turned too late. Kielran’s dagger pierced beneath his jaw, severing vocal cords before he could make a sound.

He lowered the body gently to the floor, ensuring no disturbance.

As he ascended the grand staircase, another guard appeared at the landing. Kielran didn’t hesitate.

A quick sidestep, a hand clamped over the man’s mouth, and the dagger buried deep into his side. The blade slid through muscle, puncturing the heart.

By the time he reached the grand door, the body count had climbed into double digits.

Not a single alarm had been raised.

No scream. No struggle.

Only silence.

The Execution

Now, he stood before the balcony doors.

Beyond the glass, Edward Albrecht sat at a long table with his wife and daughter, savoring an extravagant meal.

The perfect family portrait. A father. A mother. A daughter.

A lie.

Albrecht swirled a glass of wine in his hand, laughing at something his wife had said.

His daughter,  probably older than him, quietly picked at her food, her presence merely a showpiece in his performance of a loving patriarch.

Kielran stepped through the doors.

Albrecht turned, brows furrowing, his last moment of confusion.

Kielran raised his silencer. One shot.

The bullet found its mark.

One precise strike to the head.

The bullet tore through Albrecht’s skull.

Blood sprayed across the table, the glass of wine he had been holding tumbling to the floor. His wife barely had time to scream before a second shot silenced her forever.

Only the daughter remained.

She trembled, eyes wide with horror. The scent of blood filled the air. Her gaze met Kielran’s, full of fear, confusion.

"Why?" she whispered.

Kielran didn’t answer. He never did. His gun remained steady, finger curling around the trigger. No loose ends. No survivors.

And then...

A shadow moved.

Too fast. Too familiar. Before he could react, something slammed into him. Kielran staggered backward as a figure tackled him, sending them both crashing onto the deck.

A voice, breathless with rage. "Stop!"

Kielran looked up, and for the first time that night, his cold, calculated mind faltered.

Vincent...

The Brother’s Plea

Kielran’s older brother stood before him, chest heaving, arms raised as if to shield the girl. His suit was disheveled, his hands shaking.

"She’s innocent, Kiel!"  Vincent’s voice was raw with desperation.

"She has nothing to do with this!"

Kielran’s voice was devoid of emotion. "She is my mission."

He turned to his brother, his violet eyes cold, unreadable.

Vincent’s breath was unsteady. "I love her. I am begging you please don't kill her."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Kielran smirked, a ghost of something cruel flickering across his face.

"Your weakness disgusts me."

Those words struck harder than any bullet.

The tension between them was suffocating. The storm of emotions swirled behind Vincent’s eyes, but Kielran felt nothing. He had been stripped of such things long ago.

Kielran said coldly. "Step aside or I will not hesitate to kill you."

Vincent shook his head. "I'm sorry!"

Then the fight began.

Brother Against Brother

They moved in a brutal dance of precision trained killers, bred from the same bloodline. Vincent fought with desperation, but Kielran had been honed into something far more ruthless.

He slammed Vincent into the railing, twisted his wrist, and disarmed him in seconds.

Pinned, breathless, Vincent struggled against him.

"You don’t have to do this," Vincent gasped.

Kielran’s grip tightened. "Yes, I do."

He reached for his gun, ready to finish what he started.

Then...

The ship lurched violently.

Kielran lost his footing for the first time.

Vincent, seizing his only chance, grabbed the fallen gun. A single shot rang out.

The bullet struck Kielran, not fatal but enough to send him reeling.

The world tilted. The cold metal of the railing pressed against his back. His balance was gone.

Vincent’s expression shifted from rage to something else.

Regret.

Kielran’s grip failed.

And then he fell.

The Fall

The icy ocean swallowed him whole.

Darkness consumed his vision. The world above faded, the distant lights of the ship disappearing.

For the first time in his life, Kielran Vauxvermil had no control. He had been the family’s weapon, their executioner, their sacrifice.

Now, he was nothing.

As the water pulled him deeper, his last thought was not of his mission, nor of the girl, nor even of Vincent.

It was of a single, undeniable truth.

Kielran Vauxvermil was dead.

Or so they thought.