The office space was so quiet and clean, as if any dust that tried to touch the surface was instantly repelled by the modern elegance that defined it. The shiny floor reflected warm light from the minimalist chandelier hanging just above the ceiling, with a large work desk sitting firmly overlooking its surroundings. An ash leather sofa with a symmetrical precision cut was placed in the center of the room, right around the sturdy glass table in front of it.
He looked like a painted creature that forgot to change shape. The face was too symmetrical, too perfect for a world full of flaws. His blonde hair was neatly combed back, but a few strands fell to either side of his forehead as if to give the illusion that he could also be sloppy; but no, that was to be expected with his aesthetics. His skin was pale and smooth, like porcelain that had never been touched by the sun. His blue eyes were cold, not from a source of beauty. He wore a charcoal black formal suit, slick, wrinkle-free, with a tie tied neatly in the middle.
But beneath that immaculate façade lurked animal instincts. This man is nothing more than a predator who walks among humans. He is not interested in relationships, does not understand empathy, and has no moral boundaries. To him, other people's bodies are merely objects of experimentation for his deviant sexual obsession. He treats people like empty shells: stripped down, explored, and discarded when they become uninteresting. There is no hesitation. No guilt. Just raw urges wrapped in cold aesthetics and artificial elegance.
Across the sofa sat another man, in terms of looks, he was almost a reflection. Handsome with perfect facial proportions, clear skin, a firm chin, and an equally piercing gaze. His hair was jet black, neatly combed as if each strand had been configured to stay in place. His black eyes were not wild, but they were not benign either. However, there was a difference that prevented him from being confused with the lewd criminal in front of him.
Just to find out whether human blood dries faster on a wooden floor or a stone floor, he would slit another person. But don't get me wrong, there is no grudge or perverted fetish in his actions. He can help a grandmother with her weak position in the law, then five minutes later help a criminal hide a dead body. There is no line between good and bad in his mind, only the parameters of boredom.
Principles? Loyalty? Moral values? Nothing in particular. He looked at them the way he looked at his stamp collection hobby; interesting to some, perhaps, but not enough to pique his curiosity.
Even when he looked at the man on the other side, the eternal pervert who was power hungry and full of dirty fantasies; however, he was not disgusted. Just intrigued. Like a scientist who discovers a strange species that walks on two legs, wears expensive suits, and considers rape a form of achievement. He doesn't hate. Not loving. Doesn't defend. He was just observing... Then, choosing whether to play today or wait for a more absurd game tomorrow.
"I still think it's a dream, you know," the blond man's voice sounded dry, clutching the coffee cup with its steaming hot steam upward. He continued, "I woke up today, the sun was still up, the birds were still chirping, and my ass was still safe from those fucking gays in prison. The world should have been destroyed... I should have been in jail, ripped off by the press, left behind by financiers, spat on by the public. But no! Everything is peaceful... As if there was no war."
He took a quick sip of his coffee, bitter and hot, but he didn't seem to feel anything.
"He had wounds, do you remember? Physical wounds that could be visualized, printed, and presented to the world with that damn projector. Bruises on her chest, broken arm bones, scratches on her groin, lacerations on her vagina. Bite marks on her left shoulder—I, don't even remember biting her. But the forensic doctor had photos, and those photos—God."
Across from her, the black eyed man lifted a porcelain teacup. He blew on the surface, then sipped quietly. He didn't make a sound.
"You think that's bad enough? I wish. But no! There's my DNA: sperm on her clothes, saliva on her neck, traces of skin under her nails. What do I have to explain? That she bite herself?! That she like violent games?! The old fart judge also rejected four 'exes' who wanted to testify that they 'agreed'."
He laughed wryly.
"Then another witness appeared. A lowly worker from the fifth floor said he heard screams. You know my building is soundproof, right? But still, he said. Even when I defended myself, they questioned me on why I made the room soundproof."
He put down his cup with a small sound. Not on purpose, but it felt like a small shot in a quiet room.
"And the media? Oh my... They blackmail me every night on the internet. Every headline has my face on it: 'Business Angel Turned Predator', or 'Elite Suspect'."
The dark-haired man was still listening. His eyes were straight, but not entirely intrigued. He took another sip of tea, calm as a night undisturbed by the noisy developments of the world.
"You know the funniest thing? I lost a three-billion-dollar contract with a German tech company. One minor mistake, and my competitors sniffed. Two of my directors resigned. The stock value crashed. Investors started questioning the 'ethical direction of the company.' Then activists gathered, protesting in the office lobby."
He squeezed his coffee cup, refraining from slamming it down.
"You remember that scandalous case last year? It almost died out. But that case—yes, that damn case—made everything open again. One woman who couldn't play, one night that should have meant entertainment. Now the whole world is shaking like a sandcastle hit by salt water."
"If it weren't for you... I don't know. You were the only one who didn't judge, didn't rail, didn't ask about intentions. You just read the documents, crafted the narrative, and silenced the world just like that. I don't need sycophants, I need results. And, that's what you gave me," he readjusted his tie, his eyes staring at the cup that was about to crack under the pressure of his hands.
Ting! The object in the dark-haired man's left hand beeped, blue light emanating from it.
"I have another appointment," was the first word since his arrival.
The blonde man nodded slowly, his eyes no longer wild, but still containing embers, "Go on. If there's a problem one day, I hope you'll still take my calls."
Pengecara stood up, adjusted his suit, and took his "meal money", then walked away without another word.
He took the elevator down to the underground parking level. It was cold, silent, with only the hum of fans and faint ventilation in the ceiling; with fluorescent lights flickering tiredly in rare seconds. He stepped quietly as he walked, passing the rows of cars towards his vehicle, which was neatly parked behind a large concrete pillar hidden from direct view.
A man stood there, dressed in a janitor's uniform. His face was covered by a medical mask, his hands clasped tightly around a side pouch.
They stare at each other, just for a second.
The muzzle of the gun was raised.
BANG!