"Sir, how much is this pistol?"
Michael took the Glock 14 Pistol from the shelf and handed it to an illegal gun dealer.
The man was seated, busy cleaning his Ruger Super Redhawk [.454 Casull] Pistol, illuminated only by the dim light of a single incandescent bulb.
The man looked like a former military member.
He had a thick beard, wore a circular leather hat, and occasionally exhaled cigar smoke.
He was wiping down some dismantled parts of the pistol.
When I walked up to him carrying the Glock 14 Pistol, he casually turned his head.
I placed the pistol on the table.
He didn't answer yet, only stared at me suspiciously.
Then he reached for the Glock, looked at it slowly, then checked several parts.
"Kid, how old are you?"
The man looked at me with a cold stare, but I remained calm and unafraid in the slightest.
"My age? Do I look like a child?"
I pulled down the mask covering my face, showing an expression of deep hatred.
The man was slightly surprised.
He held the brim of his hat, took it off, then stood up and stared at me intently.
"Alright, it seems you have a dark past. Only, this pistol might be a little difficult for you to use. Have you ever trained?"
He sat back down, disassembling the trigger part, then cleaning it until it looked better.
"This pistol is just second-hand. Why did you choose it? Aren't there others that are better and suit your grip?"
I pulled up a chair, sat down, and took off my hat.
"My money is only enough. So, I can't buy new items. Is this pistol faulty?"
He turned his head.
The neatly dismantled pistol (only the frame remaining) was placed on the table for me.
He was cleaning the other parts.
"I've had this pistol displayed for a long time, and no one has bought it yet. This used to be my personal pistol when I was in the military. So, I need to clean it first. Consider it a bonus for you... and I'm pricing it at a thousand dollars only, not including the bullets. How about it?"
Then I picked up the pistol frame, examining it in detail.
It seemed this seller wasn't lying.
There was a code written here, and I was sure he had the certificate.
"Do you have the certificate?"
He paused briefly as if thinking for a moment.
"No, but don't worry, I have an illegal certificate, so you can relax."
I took the money out of my black cloak pocket, checked and counted it, then handed it to him.
"Deal, here's the money, count it again."
He smiled, put down his cigar, reached for the money I slid on the table, then counted it slowly.
"Okay, the price is right. Wait, I'll get the certificate. Wait for me and stay in this room, don't go anywhere."
I nodded. He walked into a room, leaving me alone in the dark, slightly cold room.
'I've collected this money myself, little by little, since five years ago. I'm 15 now... I know this shop from my usual gangster contact; he's quite decent, but I'm still careful. Christmas is approaching tonight, and today is the time to act.'
A flash of anger stretched across my eyes.
I smirked while crossing my arms, leaning back in the rusty iron chair.
This illegal shop was hidden far from my apartment.
It was underground, like a damp bunker.
To get here, I had to pass through a dark sewage tunnel.
It seemed he was alone here.
When I observed him closely, he was missing one finger, and his right leg was limping.
I guessed he was a runaway soldier.
I sighed, looking at the Ruger Super Redhawk Revolver he was cleaning.
The pistol looked long in the barrel—a fierce old weapon, but it looked brand new. I looked around.
Many pistols, sniper rifles, even shotguns were displayed on the wall.
He was clearly a firearms seller and maniac.
No one knew about this shop; if I hadn't mentioned the contact's name, I might have been shot when I first arrived here.
There was a surveillance camera in the upper corner of the room. He was being quite cautious, and maybe he was watching me from behind the room because he left me alone for a bit.
I just stayed quiet; maybe he was testing me. I had read several articles, and this was very useful.
Not long after, he opened the rusty door, then walked toward me. His face looked quite pleased.
Then he handed me the certificate. I reached for it, examining it carefully.
"What do you think? Does it meet your expectations? This certificate is written and printed very similarly, isn't it?"
He leaned against the table, crossing his arms while giving me specific explanations. I stood up, then shook hands with him.
"Certainly, it's very detailed. It looks genuine! I'm happy to work with you now. I hope to be your loyal customer later. My name is Michael. Nice to meet you."
He smiled, a husky voice echoing in the room.
"Haha, okay, I'm happy to meet you too. I've thrown away my real name; just call me Uncle Maniac."
He continued cleaning the Glock 14 pistol, then reassembled it. He gave me a bonus of five bullets. After he was done, I stored it under my cloak.
I put my mask and brown circular hat back on.
As I walked out and opened the door, he stopped me for a moment.
"Be careful. Now, just enjoy your teenage life."
I stepped out, closing the door, leaving the uncle alone.
The pungent smell of sewage stung my nose in the hallway.
I walked along the edge.
The sound of my squishy shoes echoed loudly in the dark hallway.
I climbed the steps of the sewage tunnel, then pushed open the iron cover of the rainwater drain.
I got out and quickly closed it again; the rather heavy snow made the cover feel heavy.
I walked out of the alley, toward the sidewalk.
Cars passed by.
This was a beautiful night, filled with seemingly peaceful streetlights.
I had also gotten the addresses of those three people; they were out of jail now, and their houses were not far from where I was now.
First, I had to go to the nearest target: one kilometer from here.
He lived in a low-rise apartment building.
I kept walking west, accompanied by the cold snowfall. Warm breath escaped from behind my mask.
Upon arriving, I looked around the building.
The apartment was made of unplastered red brick walls, looking ordinary, and was probably three stories high.
According to the information, he was on the top floor, room number 4.
This was a big windfall for me.
Because Brother Fuji delivered food to the west, he knew where the person lived, and a room nearby was a regular customer of my brother's.
I entered through the door.
A bell above the door chimed. I saw someone standing, casually wiping a glass, with his back to me.
"What do you need? Looking for a place to stay?"
He asked without turning around.
I saw a shotgun displayed on the wall, right next to him.
"Haha, I just want to check on my friend on the second floor, room number 5. Is he here?"
He stopped wiping the glass, then turned around, squinting, staring at me suspiciously.
"Are you his friend or something? Why does your appearance suggest otherwise?"
I remained calm, pulled down my mask, then showed my face and the food delivery card with the logo of the grilled chicken business my brother ran.
"Hmm..."
He seemed to be thinking, then he casually poured whiskey into a small glass and offered it to me.
I didn't understand, but to be polite, I sat down, took the glass, and slowly sipped it.
"You know? Your business is already well-known everywhere. Are you one of the employees? Consider this a Christmas gift from me. I'm quite close with your boss."
I put the glass on the table, then wiped my mouth of the lingering whiskey liquid.
"Do you recognize him? Yes, that's right. I'm one of his employees, and also his younger brother. Thank you for the drink you gave me."
"What are you waiting for, go meet him."
He returned to wiping the glass and closed his eyes.
I put my mask back on, then climbed the wooden stairs toward the top floor, looking for door number 4.
I knew I had lied.
Maybe he already knew.
His relaxed attitude seemed to give me permission.
Did Brother Fuji ever talk to him? Worry began to creep up on me.
After arriving in front of his room, I heard a low moan from a woman behind the door.
'So, he's enjoying his Christmas night with that slut? The bastard jerk. Do you think you're going to have fun?'
"Ahhh! Uhmmm! Darling, faster! Stab me deep!"
I narrowed my eyes.
The heat in my chest blazed.
I sneered.
'Which shameless slut dares to make a sound this loud?'
The sound was clearly audible; perhaps they were doing it near the door.
Then I took out the pistol from under my thick jacket.
I aimed the muzzle right at the center of the door, waiting for the right moment with deadly patience.
I took a shooting stance, gripping the Glock 14 Pistol with both hands, then slowly pulled the trigger.