His first mission was to eliminate a Colombian cartel that was exporting cocaine to the United States.
One of their operational bases had been located—although small, it housed a reduced contingent of criminals.
A perfect target for his debut on the battlefield.
This time, there would be no supervision.
All planning and execution would be his responsibility.
No external support, no interference—just him and his target.
He entered the country without raising suspicion, using high-quality forged documents alongside his 'father,' General Thomas Curtell. After crossing the border, Thomas immediately separated from him.
After studying the local geography and the habits of the traffickers, he rented a house near the enemy base, maintaining a discreet profile.
He spent hours analyzing every detail of the adversary's structure, mapping infiltration routes, blind spots, and possible escape routes.
When everything was ready, he waited for the night to fall.
Around 10 PM, he moved.
He wore an outfit that combined the stealth of ninjas with the tactical efficiency of modern soldiers.
The black fabric, reinforced with lightweight plates, molded to his agile body, allowing him to advance without making a sound.
Tightly adjusted bands protected his arms and legs, while a full-body tactical vest housed strategically placed compartments for weapons and equipment.
His hood concealed part of his face, but the mask—decorated with an intimidating skull—embodied the essence of a warrior who hunted in the shadows and devastated on the battlefield.
His first move was to cut the power in the area.
Using an advanced device, he disabled the neighborhood's entire electrical grid, plunging the streets into darkness.
The traffickers inside the base began cursing, irritated by the sudden blackout. Some stepped outside to check what had happened.
A fatal mistake.
Taking advantage of the shadows, he slipped through an open window and entered silently.
In his left hand, he held sharp kunai and shuriken; in his right, he wielded his gleaming katana, eager for the first strike.
The massacre began.
Moving like a specter, he eliminated his targets one by one.
A distracted guard was the first to fall, his throat slit before he could make a sound.
Two others dropped in quick succession, their jugulars pierced by kunai with lethal precision.
The rest tried to react, drawing weapons in the dark, but it was useless—he was too fast.
His katana sliced through the air with surgical precision, cutting through flesh and bone as if they were paper.
The last man tried to flee, but a shuriken struck his Achilles tendon, sending him crashing to his knees with a stifled scream. Before he could beg for his life, the blade of his katana silenced him forever.
Within minutes, twelve traffickers lay dead.
First mission: successfully completed.
And that night marked the birth of a true predator.