Scissor — Seven Assassin

Seven stood across the street, disguised as a potted fern. His scissors hung from a strap around his neck, glinting under the setting sun.

She said nothing. Just looked at a pair of scissors on her desk—matching Seven’s. scissor seven assassin

They ran through Chicken Island’s back alleys—past laundry lines, screaming vendors, and a confused duck. Seven tripped twice. Old Chen threw a wok at a pursuer. Somehow, they escaped into the basement of Seven’s hair salon. Seven stood across the street, disguised as a potted fern

“Excuse me, sir,” Seven said, holding up a crumpled photo. “Are you Old Chen? The one who makes the bland wonton soup?” Just looked at a pair of scissors on

“He’s just a grandpa,” Seven whispered to himself. “A grandpa who sells bad noodles and saw bad people. But still—grandpa.”

And smiled.

From the alley, three real assassins emerged—masked, silent, hired by the pill smugglers to finish the job Seven wouldn’t.