"Sylin, you're slacking off again." A playful voice pulled me out of my reverie. Chloe stood there in a white shirt, her ponytail neat and practical, a touch of annoyance in her eyes.
"No— I'm checking that the books are in the right order." I grinned.
"Please. You're a guy—how can you keep getting me to do all the cleaning?" she teased.
"Because you're cute," I said.
"When the boss gets back I'll make him dock your pay." Chloe snorted and ran down the stairs.
I forgot to mention: this is my other life. A senior who brought me into the business warned me not to let assassination become my whole life. Killing is a job—dirty work, but a job—like the street cleaners. Do it long enough and your mind breaks; you become some antisocial lunatic. It's healthier to have another occupation that buffers the shock of what you do.
Our shop was barely forty square meters. No more than ten customers a day.
A lazy owner who could disappear for months and, when in the store, spent most of his time dozing in a wicker chair.
A pretty, cheerful waitress who bickered with me constantly yet never lost her temper—clean as a white dress untouched by dust, making the slow workday feel brighter.
Like a CD with two sides: crimson stained with blood on one side, soft pale blue on the other.
Left hand Cupid, right hand Death—that's my life.
"Sylin, the drain in my place is clogged again. Could you check it for me?" The old lady across the way tapped her cane and asked.
"Sure, I'll go in a bit." I smiled.
"Sylin, my cat food arrived. Could you help me carry it up? Thanks." The pregnant woman next door smiled shyly.
"No problem."
I spent the whole morning doing errands for neighbors. Finally I flopped into the same wicker chair the boss liked to nap in, breathing hard. Chloe handed me a glass of water and pointed upstairs with a worried look.
"They're back."
A few goons with weird haircuts were loitering on the second floor, smoking and cracking jokes, sneaking leering looks at Chloe. I found it amusing but wore a worried face. "What should we do?" I asked.
"Call the boss—no… maybe the cops?" Chloe clutched her sleeve.
"I'll go up and talk to them first."
I went upstairs. These punks were the type who'd gotten lazy off a life of petty scams. The ringleader had dyed hair and a crew cut—red hair—and an embarrassing nickname: "Mike." I put on a respectful air. "Mike, what brings you by today?"
Mike didn't even glance my way. He pointed at Chloe downstairs. "Get outta here. Tell that chick to come up and talk to me."
"She's new. Look, Mike—if there's something you want… I can help take care of it." I held back for half a minute until my face burned.
"Fuck you!"
Mike stood and slapped me. He tried to look ferocious; in my eyes it was like watching slow motion. I swallowed the reflex to dodge, held my face and stepped back.
"Who hit you? What are you doing?" A short-haired policewoman ran up the stairs. Chloe had seen things were wrong and gone to fetch a cop from the street.
Mike swallowed and appraised the officer. She was in her twenties—fair skin, slim figure, eyes like the deep sea—and there was a stubborn competitiveness in her expression that didn't suit such a pretty face.
"Officer, what's your number? How about dinner tonight?" Mike leered.
The other goons egged him on and closed in, trying to surround the female officer.
"Did you hit this guy?" the officer asked, pointing at Mike.
"Look at those hands—so white…" Mike grabbed the officer's wrist and pulled her in.
His next sound was a scream. The officer twisted his arm and slammed him to the ground. Mike howled in pain. The others saw the situation go south and tried to interfere, but she glared at them with such force they froze. She pulled a pair of handcuffs from her belt, cuffed Mike, then turned to me. "You—come to the station with me and give a statement."
At midnight I had everything in place. I doused the target with cold water to wake him up.
The place was an underground warehouse on the outskirts—forty kilometers from the nearest town—and the caretaker only checked in every six months.
A two-square-meter steel cage. The target's hands were cuffed to an iron post. A large pet dog sat by his side.
"Who are you? What do you want?" the target flailed his arms; the cuffs rang against the metal.
I took out a newspaper and read the report aloud, then pulled a note the client had left and asked the target, "This is you, isn't it?"
Cold sweat trickled down his forehead. He kept struggling uselessly while the dog grew restless, tail up, barking furiously at me.
"Is it you?" I asked again.
"Y-yes… that was a misunderstanding. My dog's well trained. I don't know why it bit that woman that day," he stammered, lips trembling.
"Do you think a dog's life equals a human's?" I asked.
"No, I don't." He shook his head desperately. "I even asked the hospital. She only needs to stay two months and then she can go home."
"Then let's run an experiment. See whether your dog is really as obedient as you say. There's no food here. I'll come back in seven days. If your dog's still as well behaved then, I'll let you out."
I slipped the note back into my pocket, set the camera facing the cage, ignored his pleas and screams, and left the warehouse.
Sick. Absolutely sick.
Every time I thought about the crazed excitement in that pale young man's eyes, I felt nauseous.
The camera streamed everything to the cloud in real time—both he and I could watch what happened inside the cage.
Day one: the target tried every way to call for help, but to no avail. By nightfall his voice was hoarse and nearly gone.
Day two: the dog began to suffer under hunger; it prowled around the man but still hadn't attacked him.
Day three: the target noticed the dog's change. Whenever it approached he shouted commands for it to roll away. The dog, still partly bound by training, hesitated—man and animal locked in a standoff.
Day four: the target weakened. There was a tap at the cage to drink from, but lack of food slowed his movements. The dog's animal side crept out; it lunged and bit through the man's trouser leg. He kicked it away and the stalemate resumed.
Day five: the dog went mad. It searched every opportunity to tear at the man. The target grew exhausted, suffering multiple bites; a chunk of flesh was ripped from his thigh. He cursed and sobbed, tried to coax the dog back into its former pet state, but it was impossible.
Day six: the dog latched onto the man's neck. He bled out and died. In the afternoon the dog began to eat.
"Spectacular. Absolutely fucking spectacular!" the young man applauded like he'd just watched a grotesque, lavish stage performance.
"Mr. K," he said, "you leave me speechless. To show my appreciation I'll increase the final payment by fifty percent."
He stood and extended his right hand. I returned the handshake coldly.
This guy's got to be insane, I thought.
"Here's the next target, Mr. K."
He slid another photo across the table.
His company had an employee—a single mother—who quit over some dispute and began selling snacks on the street to feed her child. An anti-fraud activist decided to sabotage her: he bought many portions and then reported her to the health department, claiming the food was unregulated and unsafe. The fine wasn't huge, but for that impoverished family it was devast ating.
What the hell is this? I frowned at him.
"See? Isn't she hateful? Doesn't she deserve to die?" the young man's eyes bulged, fishing for agreement on my face.
"If you can't stand it, give the victim some money. Solve the problem that way—why spend dozens of times more to kill someone?" I said.
"Mr. K, you think too simply. Giving that poor woman money treats the symptom, not the cause. These incidents keep happening because the wicked aren't afraid of justice. If the end of evil cast a shadow of fear, people would restrain themselves. That's my point." He warmed to his rhetoric like some damn orator.
"What do you propose?" I interrupted impatiently.
He leaned in and whispered something. Seeing my displeasure, he added quickly, "Mr. K, you're the most talented man I've met. I want a long-term partnership. I'll double the pay this time."
The red ring on his hand flashed with an eerie chill.