The Assassin's Guide to High School

Phantom

The plane hummed with that particular frequency that made most people drowsy. Not me. I'd never felt more awake in my life.

Seat 12A. Window side. Perfect view of the endless blue stretching beneath us as we climbed toward cruising altitude. I pressed my fingers against the cool glass, watching the ground fall away, taking sixteen years of my life with it. Sixteen years of blood, precision, and a perfect success rate that made my name whispered in the darkest corners of the world.

Phantom.

God, what a ridiculous alias. Like I was supposed to haunt people or some poetic bullshit. But that's what you get when you let a bunch of dramatic assassins name you. The world's number one killer—one hundred percent success rate, zero room for error—and they'd given me a name that sounded like a bad superhero movie.

I smiled at my reflection in the window.

"You have such a lovely smile!" The woman beside me leaned over, her face lighting up with genuine warmth. Middle-aged, kind eyes, probably heading to LA to visit family. "Are you excited about this trip?"

My smile widened, all teeth and practiced perfection. Sixteen years of wearing masks had taught me exactly how to look harmless. "Yeah, I'm starting a new life."

If only you knew, I thought, maintaining that sweet expression while my mind supplied the rest: that this sweet smile belongs to the top-ranked assassin on the global hit list. That I could kill you seventeen different ways with the plastic coffee stirrer in your cup holder. That starting a new life meant betraying the most dangerous organization on the planet.

"How wonderful!" She squeezed my arm. "New beginnings are such a gift."

"Absolutely," I agreed, settling back into my seat.

The truth was simpler than anyone would believe. I wasn't leaving because killing had lost its appeal. I wasn't suffering from some sudden attack of conscience or moral awakening. No—killing had become too easy. Point, shoot, collect payment. Rinse and repeat until even the most elaborate contracts felt like checking items off a grocery list.

But adapting to normal society? Now that was a challenge worth taking. Learning to smile without calculating threat levels. Making small talk without profiling everyone in the room. Buying groceries, paying taxes, pretending to care about traffic jams—that was the real test of skill.

Plus, there was the minor detail of Bloodline definitely sending people to kill me for deserting. The thought sent a pleasant thrill down my spine. Finally, some excitement. Life was about to get interesting again.

The seatbelt sign dinked off. Around me, passengers relaxed into their seats, pulling out tablets and magazines. The woman beside me closed her eyes for a nap. I reached into my bag, fingers closing around the book I'd bought specifically for this trip.

"How to Integrate into Society: A Practical Guide."

I was three pages in, genuinely fascinated by a chapter on appropriate conversation topics for workplace water coolers, when the first scream shattered the cabin's peace.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Six men burst from the bathroom area and front cabin, tactical vests strapped tight, weapons raised. Not just any weapons—MP5 submachine guns, if I wasn't mistaken. Professional grade. The leader, a man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, fired a warning shot into the ceiling that had everyone screaming and diving for cover.

I couldn't believe my luck. I was trying to leave this life behind, and here it was, following me onto a commercial flight.

"Nobody move!" Scar-face bellowed, his voice carrying over the chaos. "Everyone stays calm, nobody dies today. Maybe."

I turned the page of my book. Chapter three: maintaining appropriate personal boundaries in social situations.

The woman beside me grabbed my sleeve, her face pale with terror. "Little sister, get down! Hide behind the seat!"

Little sister? Don't let this innocent face fool you, lady. But I kept that thought to myself and continued reading. The chapter was actually quite informative.

"Did you hear me?" She yanked harder on my arm, genuine panic in her voice. "Please, you have to hide!"

I appreciated the concern, truly. But after sixteen years of professional killing, hijacking scenarios ranked somewhere between mildly interesting and Tuesday afternoon on my concern scale. A few armed men shouting threats? That barely qualified as an inconvenience.

The crack of a gunshot made the woman beside me sob. A passenger three rows up slumped forward, blood spreading across his business shirt. The cabin erupted into fresh screams.

"Listen up!" Scar-face stalked down the aisle, his boots heavy against the cabin floor. "I know we have a Bloodline operative on this plane. Phantom, to be specific." He said my name like it was poison. "You stole something that belongs to us. The Satan's Heart. So why don't you make this easy and show yourself?"

Silence descended, broken only by muffled crying and the steady hum of the engines.

I flipped another page. This section on gift-giving etiquette was surprisingly complex.

Scar-face and his men began moving through the cabin, checking faces, pulling people up from their seats. They focused on the men—broad shoulders, military bearing, anyone who looked remotely capable of violence. Every few rows, another confrontation. Another gunshot. Another body.

Blood spattered across the overhead compartments. The cabin reeked of gunpowder and fear.

The woman beside me had her eyes squeezed shut, lips moving in silent prayer.

"Interesting," I murmured, still absorbed in my book. "Apparently you're supposed to write thank-you notes within two weeks. Who knew social norms were so specific?"