Kane “Killer” Christian had slit throats quieter than his own thoughts. But tonight, the silence screamed.
The file slid across the table. Kane didn’t open it. He already knew the names inside.

“Family of Abel Devon James,” Mr. XYZ said, smooth as silk and sharp as glass. “Clean sweep.”

Kane didn’t flinch. But inside, something cracked. He sat on the chair, no mask, no blade, no plan. Just a rope. A letter tucked into his back pocket, an empty shot glass on the desk. The assignment: eliminate the wife and kids of Abel Devon James. His brother in everything but blood. They called it “collateral cleanup.” He called it betrayal.

Abel. His best friend since they were seven. The one who taught him how to ride a bike, how to talk to girls, how to live like the world wasn’t closing in. They had a catchphrase.

“Don’t leave me hanging,” Abel would say every time Kane hesitated, laughed, cried, or almost gave up.

Kane was tired of pretending. Of killing strangers for cash. Of being a ghost. But this? Killing his brother’s family? It was too much for him.

That night, he stared at the rope hanging from the ceiling. The fan hummed softly, unaware. A folded letter sat beside an empty bottle.

The door creaked open. Fast footsteps approached. Then….

“...Kane?”

It was Abel.

“I forgot my passport on your desk,” he mumbled. Then, louder— “KANE?!”

He saw the rope. The chair. The quiet goodbye.

“KANE!” Abel lunged, arms grabbing his legs, yanking him down. The fan spun uselessly above them.

Kane coughed, air burning back into his lungs.

“What the hell, man? You trying to go out like that?”

“I was just…” Kane looked away. “Trying to disappear.”

Abel sat beside him, breath ragged. “I should kill you. But instead, here.” He pulled out his phone, played a voice memo. It was young Abel’s voice, from 8 years ago, playful and bright:

“Don’t leave me hanging, idiot. Life’s still fun. Even when it sucks.”

Kane chuckled weakly.

“I’ve been a banker, a baker, tried stripping at a club not just once,” Kane said, trying to mask the truth of him being a hitman. “Nothing sticks. I’m tired, man. Just… tired.”

Abel placed a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to be any of that. Just be here. With me. Always.”

He scribbled something onto a cheque. “485,000 dollars. Yours. Use it to breathe again.”

Kane stared, voice cracking. “Why would you—”

“Because I love you, dumbass.”

The catchphrase slipped out like instinct.

“Don’t leave me hanging, okay?”

Kane nodded. But inside, something else stirred.

————

Two days later, Abel kissed his wife, hugged his four kids tight, and left for Tokyo. He turned at the door and grinned, “I’ll be back with stories. Don’t miss me much”

Kane watched from the shadows, this ninja knew his job but his heart was pounding.

That night, the house was still. The kids were asleep. His gun was cold.

One by one. Silent. Quick. A mercy, he told himself “if I didn't, someone else would”.

He left an envelope on the kitchen table.

In it, a cheque for 8,450,000 dollars and a letter:

“Forgive me. I had to protect you. This was the only way. Don’t follow me. Please.”

When Abel returned five days later, the air felt wrong.

He opened the door.

Silence.

He dropped his suitcase. Ran into the red living room, painted in the blood of his entire bloodline.

Screams tore from his throat.

Then he saw the letter. The cheque. The name signed at the bottom.

“Kane…”

He sat on the bathroom floor, hopeless and full of regrets.

He picked up the rope.

“I shouldn’t have saved you.”

He held the cheque in his hand, tears falling on the ink.

“Guess it’s my turn, brother.”

He tied the knot around his neck.

And whispered,

“Don’t leave me hanging.”