The name I was using that day was Evan Hale.
It wasn't a good name.
It wasn't a bad one either.
That made it perfect.
Evan Hale had a rented apartment on the twelfth floor, a job that didn't matter, and neighbors who remembered his face but not his voice. He paid his bills on time. He smiled when spoken to. He never stayed long enough to be missed.
I liked Evan.
The city liked him too. It ignored him completely.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting my tie. Dark blue. Cheap. Forgettable. The kind of thing people glance at once and immediately forget.
My phone vibrated on the sink.
No ringtone. No notification sound. Just vibration.
I didn't pick it up right away.
People who react too fast look guilty.
People who react too slow look suspicious.
I waited exactly three seconds.
The screen lit up.
MEETING MOVED. 10:40. SAME PLACE.
No name. No sender.
Good.
I turned the faucet and let the water run, just loud enough to drown out the city. My reflection stared back at me, calm and convincing.
Evan Hale looked like someone who believed in rules.
I dried my hands and grabbed my coat.
The café sat on a quiet corner, pretending to be unimportant. Brown sign. Warm lights. Music that tried too hard to be comforting.
Perfect cover.
I arrived at 10:37.
Three minutes early.
Early enough to observe.
Late enough to look casual.
The man I was supposed to meet sat near the window, pretending to read the same page over and over again. His hands shook slightly. Not from caffeine.
Fear.
I ordered coffee I wouldn't finish and took the seat across from him.
He didn't look up.
"Do you know why you're here?" I asked.
He swallowed.
"They said you could help me."
They always say that.
"I can," I said. "But help is expensive."
"I have money."
"I know."
His eyes flicked up for half a second. Enough to confirm what I already knew.
"I don't want to die," he said.
Honest. Refreshing.
"That depends," I replied, stirring my coffee, "on what you're willing to lose instead."
He laughed nervously, then stopped when he realized I wasn't joking.
"They think I betrayed them," he said. "I didn't. I swear."
Swearing is what people do when truth isn't enough.
"I believe you," I said.
He froze.
"Then you'll—"
"I didn't say it mattered."
Silence settled between us, thick and uncomfortable.
People misunderstand morality. They think it's a scale—good on one side, evil on the other. What they don't see is the floor underneath.
Outcomes.
"Here's what's going to happen," I continued. "Tonight, you'll disappear. Tomorrow, someone else will take the blame. By the end of the week, no one will remember your name."
His breath came fast. "And the price?"
I leaned forward slightly.
"You won't be innocent anymore."
He stared at me.
"Is that all?" he asked.
I smiled.
For him, it was everything.
When I left the café, the city felt unchanged. People walked. Cars moved. Lives continued.
That was the point.
I checked my phone once more.
A new message waited.
PHASE ONE COMPLETE.
I typed a single response.
Prepare contingency.
Evan Hale would be gone by morning.
Another name would take his place. Another role. Another carefully chosen lie.
I stepped into the crowd, already forgetting the man at the café.
People think the hardest choice is between good and evil.
They're wrong.
The hardest choice is deciding what survives when neither deserves to.