The dimly lit motel room held a couple engaged in a pre-sleep conversation. I stood quietly at the door, letting them savor their last moments of pleasure.
After all, even a killer must have a proper meal before beheading—a matter of professional courtesy.
"When are you finally going to divorce your wife? Didn't you say she's losing her mind? How much longer do you expect me to wait?" A woman's voice broke the silence.
"Wait a little longer. Not yet," the man replied, lighting a cigarette with a lighter and taking a leisurely puff.
"That's not good enough. You promised me you'd marry me before Christmas. Are you going to lie again?" The woman pouted and kept tapping his shoulder.
"Sorry to interrupt."
I stepped out of the shadows. The man's eyes widened as he tried to leap off the bed, but I lazily raised my silenced pistol. With a squeeze of the trigger, he fell backward, his back hitting the floor, blood soaking the bedsheet. The woman, still in her pajamas, screamed—then screamed louder, wildly, and tumbled off the bed in utter disarray.
"Shh."
I placed a finger on my lips, signaling her to be quiet.
"Please… don't kill me. I'll do anything, I have money, anything…" She trembled violently, kneeling in front of me and pleading for her life.
"Miss Vann, don't be so nervous. I suggest you put on some clothes first. It's cold, catching a chill won't do you any good." I grabbed a coat from the rack and tossed it to her.
She obediently wrapped it around herself, forcing a smile at me. It was clear she wanted to appear beautiful, but under extreme fear, that smile looked more grotesque than tears.
I took out my phone and played a video pre-recorded by the client.
The woman in the video was pale, yet her eyes burned with uncontrollable excitement. She stared directly at the camera:
"You have been my best friend all my life. I've always considered you a sister. Back in high school, you wanted to be cheer captain and tampered with my bike, causing me a three-month injury and keeping me from running. I forgave you. In college, you framed me for cheating to get a scholarship—I forgave you. After graduation, you left your debt under my name. I was harassed by thugs for half a year, working three jobs a day to pay it off. Still, I forgave you, because in my heart, you were just a foolish little sister, and I hoped one day you'd cherish our friendship as I do."
"But you should never have seduced my husband, and you should never have poisoned my milk, causing me to lose my child. The doctors say I'll never be able to have another child. I can give you everything—haha, now I'm giving you my husband. You like him, right? Then enjoy holding him through the night. If you dare call the police or try to leave the hotel early, the hitman I hired will ensure your death is gruesome. I promise, the first minute you regret it, you'll wish you hadn't been born. Hahaha…"
I sighed as the video ended. Women were truly terrifying creatures.
The woman, now clad in black, looked at me with desperate eyes. I raised my gun slightly. As if struck by electricity, she crawled onto the bed, clutching the gruesome corpse. Trembling, she instinctively closed her eyes, yet feared facing me from the foot of the bed. She wanted to scream, to cry, but could only cover her mouth, her silent sobs deafening the small room—a textbook display of torment.
The corpse gradually cooled, the blood slowly congealing. Every second hammered at her sanity.
After this night, she would never sleep soundly again.
By dawn, I stretched lazily and stepped out of the motel. Behind me, a strange, hoarse laugh echoed. As I expected, her mind had reached its breaking point. She had gone mad.
By now you're probably ready to peg me as some kind of perverse bloodthirsty maniac. Changing that first impression isn't easy, so bear with me and listen.
I'm a killer. In the trade they call me "K."
Any profession that exists has its reasons. People kill — always have, always will — some with power, some with passion, some under the color of law, and some even in the name of morality. Often it's over something tiny: an insult, a shove, an ill-timed look. This era is a heated cage; everyone's on edge and quick to violence.
I digress. My point is that because the desire to kill never really dies, our industry survives. From ancient assassins to modern-day zealots, to the hired killers in the city, the rules have become more refined as society evolved. One-time fee: a bullet finds a person. Double that: you can pick the method. Triple: add extra services—like the video I showed earlier to give the client extra satisfaction.
It's not something to praise, nor is it worthy of total scorn. That's how I view our business.
Until I met an unusual client.
"You're really a killer? You can do it for that little?" The man across the table was handsome but a little pale—nervous or excited, I couldn't tell. He wore a conspicuous red ring on his right hand and an odd leather glove on his left.
"Yes." I nodded.
"You can choose the manner of death? Your services are so... humane now?" He swallowed, dabbed sweat from his face with an expensive handkerchief.
"Of course. Who do you want killed?"
He pulled a photo from his pocket, pointed to the man in it and said, "Start with him."
He told me his friend's girlfriend had been attacked by a vicious dog while jogging in the park. She cried for help, but the dog's owner ordered the animal to bite harder. The woman was badly injured and hospitalized; the friend asked him to take care of it.
The picture was a blurry long shot, but the dog owner's arrogant posture was unmistakable.
"Is that really worth killing over?" I frowned.
"He's a danger to the public. Scum like that—shouldn't they be dead?" The man looked at me straight on.
"Half up front. The rest goes into my account when it's done."
"No need—here's the full amount. Consider this the start of a relationship. I'll be hiring you often." He gave me a satisfied smile and had his men transfer the money.