#vmxinitiation

He’d hardly make enough money if he only stuck to the Cottonmouth routes.

One wants twenty kilos of Ivory Wave, the second wants ten kilos of Special K, and the last one wanted at least one hundred kilos of China White.

Synthetic Cathinones, heroin, and ketamine.

Five days for all of them, he felt like he’d have an easier time making a rickshaw with popsicle sticks. No matter how little sleep he’d get, there would be only a few hours of buffer time between deliveries. 

Between hitting the botanist after taking a shower in red and blue, Danny managed to get his pots and pans going relentlessly. Two days and he had half of his duties fulfilled, the rest were put on hold without hesitation.

He hadn’t gotten to shaving, the sound of his bristled chin rubbing against his palm as he tiredly ran a hand over his face. He cleaned all of his inventory for these missions, all of his stock and more of his current supply. The job won’t be done, of course, it never was. He’d be spending months to restock and to keep his links and —

Amongst the sounds, bubbling and clattering of metal falling from his hands, he sighed and leaned on the counter. 

For a moment, on the second day, time stopped. He knew that there will be effects, as there are always side effects to his creations. To the people he hands the packages to, the people around him, those who he’s associated with, and to himself. Memories flashed by him, those from two days ago and those from years past. Bad deeds he’s done, those he still does, and of course those that he will do.

His hands are bruised, thinned, and uncomfortably sore. The very tips are calloused to exposure, his legs are stiff from standing, and his eyes feel incredibly dry and stained.

By day five, he was visibly unhealthy. 

He packed over one hundred and thirty kilos that were worth at least one year of a college student’s tuition at a school he may have dropped out on during orientation. But with that aside, he drove with a daze. Misunderstanding his own perceptions and still remembering the stop signs, the old lady that takes her morning walk, and the turns.

“ Twenty k’s, I advise that you wear the masks. ”

Stop signs, the jogger, the biker, and more turns.

“ I’m out for the next few weeks. I’ll keep you posted. ”

His first full meal in five days, the rest have been consisted with quick eats, lack of contamination. Lack of, mistakes. He can’t afford mistakes. Not with them, not with any of them. 

Slow steps towards his front door, through a hallway, and a turn on the right. A phone charger laid atop of a small bedside table, the second drawer, third pill bottle from the back, two pills. He laid his head down, a hand on his stomach, and a steady breath. 

One, two. 

He begins to second-guess himself. Fingers tap against the corner of his keyboard as he stares at the screen. Then again, Wolfsbane is such a large base; affiliations are everywhere. Is fifteen minutes enough time? Like most of his choices in life, he takes a deep breath before shrugging and hopes that god doesn’t hate him too much as he throws a hail mary. He clicks the link before he can think for a third time. 

He takes a moment. It’s easy, it should be easy. So easy, what’s there to worry about? Nothing, exactly. He should be glad they didn’t decide to throw him into a warehouse and tell him to sneak back a whole terabyte worth of information. That would be a disaster no doubt. The last time he ran was in high school and that was well over seven years ago.

With a deep breath, he pastes in the code and it starts immediately. He tells himself not to worry about the time; it’s not an issue. 

He starts it easy and searches for everything with ‘Wolfsbane’ in it. He opens up the first files he sees and skims is as quickly as he can without losing too much information in the process. Declaring that everything in innocuous without the sudden lose of information, he erases all that he needs before declaring it good enough, and he’s onto the next one. 

It becomes his pattern to just open, skim, erase, and alter as needed. He makes sure everything makes sense, everything is in order and there are absolutely no loose ends that would draw back to him, or Wolfsbane. As a safety measure, he goes back onto the server to check all files in case he missed any. He makes sure that recent affiliation activities become nonexistent and there are absolutely no information on any members. No one and nothing are under suspicion, everything is clean. 

He takes a moment to gather himself. Glancing at the clock, he only has a few minutes left. He wants to stay in the database just a little longer, to explore and see what the police has caught on about and what they haven’t. Most importantly, he wanted to see what they had to say about him. Not much, he assumes because he hasn’t done anything to catch their eyes but that doesn’t mean he’s not in their database anymore. Chances are, his profile has been wiped clean but he just wants to know. 

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he quickly tries to cover his tracks before the timer runs out. He erases all evidence that anyone had been in the database whatsoever. He finishes just as the clock hits zero and he breathes out. 

Hyunseung spends the next few minutes just staring blankly, losing himself in his own thoughts. He hopes that he covered everything well and he prays to god that he did, because if he didn’t, he was fucked. There was no way for him to check now, so he just hopes with a racing heart in his stomach and fingers crossed. 

it was a peaceful day at seoul, the inspector thought. after what seems to be four hours of patrolling around the busy streets of seoul, she had not seen anything suspicious at all. not until she had made a turn around the corner of an intersection.

being an inspector doesn’t really mean that all you do was to investigate about crimes and such. from time to time, byulyi did patrolled around the city. not that she had anything productive to do at all times anyway. being passionate about her job, she just couldn’t afford to sit still and do nothing for the whole day, and so that is why she was here, doing some patrol around the busy streets of seoul -- which isn’t included on her main duties as an inspector.

from afar, she could already see what was going on. a tall man, probably on his late 30′s had his hands wrapped around the neck of a slimmer, shorter woman who seemed to be on her early 30′s. the inspector did not even think twice at all before reacting to the scenery that was in front of her, there was no need to think about what to do at these kinds of situation. this needs to stop, she needed to intervene. it was getting out of hand, she could see the fear on the passer-by’s eyes. the more reason as to why she need to act fast, or else, this might get even worse.

“excuse me mam.... sir. is there any problem in here? whatever is it, maybe we can settle this in peace?” she tried to sound as calm as she can, not forgetting to clear her throat before she even spoke up, wanting to get the attention of the two in advance. though she seemed to gather their attention, neither of them doesn’t seem to want to let go and settle this in peace. the man, still appeared to be violent as ever, and as well as the woman. 

“no, mind you own business, buddy.” he tried to appear as intimidating to byulyi. though byulyi would have to admit that it was quite effective, still she tried to shrug it off, she tried to remain cool and all.

“but this is my business, now that you’re creating quite a scene here, and you’re causing a commotion..” she explained, her tone still the same as before. this wasn’t getting anywhere. she had observed the man all throughout, he seemed not afraid, like he was just talking to a civilian or some sort. was he aware that he was actually talking to a police officer? he should be right? byulyi was wearing a uniform. there’s no way he wouldn’t know that she was a part of the spd. her eyes averted for quite a while from the man, she tried to observe the woman. she wasn’t looking at her, unlike the man, and she remained quiet all throughout. she didn’t said a word.... why is that? 

“if there’s no way we can settle this in peace, then i would like to ask you to come with me to the head quarters.” her gaze went back to the man, he still have the same expression as before. it was kind of frustrating for byulyi though, he appeared very tough, like nothing could tame him. maybe he’s a gang member?

everything went fast as a lightning, and boy how byulyi was relieved that her reflexes were fast. it was quite a relief for the inspector that she was alert of her surroundings, of everything that was happening or even going to happen in advance. her instincts were proven to be correct, maybe he was a gang member after all.

he was about to pull out something from his pocket. the man loosened his grip on the woman, and it seems like the woman took advantage of this. the woman kicked his leg hard, and he limped, causing him to lose his balance. she escaped from the scene a few seconds after. if byulyi wasn’t keeping an eye on the man, she probably would’ve followed the woman, but she knew the man had a weapon since she saw him he was about to pull out something, and so, she decided to let the woman go this time. she’ll probably get back to her later on, probably find her or something. 

now, she needed to deal with this man. "sir, i may need to--” her words were cut off as the man pulled out something from his pocket once more, and byulyi, being alert as before, beat him to it for probably a few seconds earlier. her hand gripped tightly against the man’s arm, she kicked the man’s leg, causing him to limp once more, and lose his balance. he also dropped the knife he was holding. byulyi took the chance to hand cuff him as soon as he dropped his knees against the pavement. “i am sorry, but you left me with no choice.” her tone still calm as ever. once she successfully handcuffed him, she grab a hold of his arm, pulling him up. 

it was dark, the sun hidden and the sky tainted and the streets lit with flicking yellow blubs. it was always night, a preferred time of operation for the arachnid children, and soojung had often found herself fighting to remember the touch of sunlight and what it had been like to live a life that did not burn on moonlight and stardust alone.

behind her, her teammates swear and it pulls her from memories ( her brother smile still burns her chest with a sick twist of longing, like a heavy, cotton blanket, wrapped over her face and pulled tight against her mouth and nose ). one female, like she, and the other male. the female is pressing against his wound, a hole that had torn through his chest and left his black shirt glistening with red. he is pale, sweat pilling at the top of his forehead and down his neck. it takes soojung a single glance, at him, a take on his features as they pull from the pain and the large swimming pool of life underneath him, and she knows he will not live. but the woman fights beside him, fingers stained with his life and vicious tears swelling at the corner of her eyes.

soojung crawls—keeps her back low and her shoulders tight, towards them. behind her she hears the scanning voices of the police members, calling commands in codes the three recluse members do not recall, demanding for them to be found. their guns slap against their thighs as the march through the halls—the warehouse crumpling around them and empty excluding the criminals and their pursuers. it makes the woman sigh before she turns her face to the man.

she didn’t learn their names, she never does. the members come as quickly as they go and soojung had never been one to attach herself to another. they were not her brother, with pure faces and eyes that fold when they smile—so she does not care.

“you need to get the information—“ she shoots the other female a look of dismal, and when she raises her lips to snarl a protest, soojung is quick to shoo her once more. “get the files from their cars, then go get help. protesting burns time, which we lack. the longer you play around here, the more likely he is to die.”

he will die, soojung knows it. but hope and fear are a powerful play, and it gives the woman enough of a push to gather her limbs, nod, and kiss the man hard on the mouth before streaking through the shadows once more.

it’s quiet, only his labored breathing filling the small space of the room, and the occasional click of an officer’s gun or an echo of their boots. soojung pulls her medical kit—a basic and small box she carries in her bag on every occasion she leaves her home. quickly she lifts the lid, dumps it contents across the dirt floor and begins to work on the wound. she strips a knife from her belt, cuts open the shirt of the man and squints through the dark of the room. several bullets had pierced through his stomach, the metal as unforgiving, leaving his skin in a rupture of red and yellow.

she gags back her disgust, finds the small bottle of alcohol and a cloth. she tears it in half, stuffs one part in his mouth ( because whether he bites his tongue from the pain or screams, the enemy will hear and soojung does not plan to die beside him ) and wets the other with the liquid. she dabs it at his wound, and sure enough he groans into the cloth, letting the fabric catch his pain as his fingers reach for soojung. he grabs at her sleeve, squeezing the fabric in his palm.

“i know—“ she whispers, hand still blotting as her free hand moves to brush the beads of sweat from his forehead. “it’ll be over with soon.”

he doesn’t hear her, all he knows is pain, that soojung knows. when the wound is clean, or as clean as it will allow, she begins to press cloth to the bullet holes in small hope it stops it bleeding. they fill with blood quickly, and it paints her hands ( days after, when she’s home and resting, her fingernails will remain stained and she will look at them and remember and she will frown ).

she leans her weight into his wounds, relaxing against him and letting him calm. after moments of silence and shaking breathing, spits the cloth from his mouth and allows himself to calm.

“where did she go?” he’s hoarse, and is stomach moves when he speaks from under her.

“i made her finish the mission.” she doesn’t look at him, doesn’t want to. it is hard enough to stare into the eyes of those who have passed, but harder to lie into the eyes of the living.

he’s quiet, but for a moment, before taking another shaking breath that moves her.

“she’ll be back soon though, right?”

soojung just nods, fingers moving to pluck the loose threads of the bloodied cloth. the blood still seeps, its on her clothes and in her hair by now and she knows even the hottest of showers will not wash him away from her skin tonight.

a small part of her feels the guilt, but an even larger part of her commands her to be unmoving. unchanged. he is a person, and people die. it is a part of the life she lives, a life he and the others around them had sworn upon. she should not pity a man because he is dead, rather she should pity the ones who live.

it doesn’t stop her chest from caving in, weak under the weight of her own emotions ( the very emotions she had sworn to rid herself of years ago ), when he dies. his chest heaves, stills, and does not rise once more moments later. the night air was colder in that instant, colder than when the snow falls in the winter months and colder than the nights she had spent curled against the porcelain bathtub of her foster home. she, with limbs that prick at movement, stiff and awkward, rises. her fingers find his neck, waiting for the beat of a pulse that never comes. she shuts the lids of his eyes, gathers her blood stained medical box, shoves it into her bag and slowly makes her way through shadows to the front of the building.

when she sees the other female return, her frame so much small when painted against the street, she no longer fears the gaze of the officers and their guns.

                       ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀                                      「    ACT ONE    」      -       THE MOURNING

ʏᴏᴜ worship at the altar of jung joonyoung, king cobra the basilisk turned to stone by his stare.  the grunts are his disciples and you are his apostle, reading scripture and prophecy with a commanding tongue from the bible you keep close at hand.  they listen because they believe, as do you.  there is a fire in the religion cottonmouth and you are the gasoline, he is the flame, the disciples are the spreading.  together, you will raise a new world and hold it in your iron fists.

but the dreams of the devout are faulty; even jesus himself was scorned before the very people he swore to save.  and so it is with joonyoung -- he may be no saint, no sacrificial lamb but he is your soothsayer and your prophet, your one true king.  he has been since that day in the rain when he touched your thighs and gave you redemption with your very own hands ( it’s more than many have given you in your entire lifetime. ) he deserves more than what they say and you watch the casting with cold eyes, the remote falling from the ice in your fingers.  you see that they are the first to cast stones, paint an ugly picture over and over again as they show his unsmiling face, his dark eyes.  they call him a cruel man, a criminal -- a monster when all you can see is but a man with eyes akin to your own, venom and fire ready to ignite.

a cruel man he might be, but all acts of change start with a rebel committing their crime.

hatred coils in your stomach like a child kicking in the womb.  blood runs cold as ever through your veins so there is no shift in your expression, a frown or fear or the slightest bit of unhappiness.  you feel it there, like a kick to the shin -- it’s sharp and it’s forceful, and the pain will linger long enough to leave a bruise.  he’s been taken.  

these are the three words that repeat in your head as you look into dark eyes still staring back at you, paused on your television screen.

                he’s.                               been.                                                taken.

you are a snow woman, so there will be no tears shed for this.  you’re not even sad; that feeling was lost to you years ago in a time of bloodshed and innocence lost to the touch of men who do not know their place.  instead, there is anger, liquifying your form and turning you to a more molten form -- you’re limp, you’re tired, you’re in disbelief.  but as much as you are hurting, you think of the children sprung from another’s womb -- the ones you took in with open arms to carve out the world into a better place through the wrath of their burning.  you only just remember the world will still revolve around you and these children that need salvation are crying out with fear in their voices.  you may be cold, but they are the ones shivering.  they are your kin and though their father the prophet is gone, there will still be a vision for the likes of cottonmouth.  this family means everything.

there is nothing left to realize but joonyoung’s face salting your eyes and telling you to move.

                                   「    ACT TWO    」      -       THE HERETIC

ɪᴛ doesn’t even take a day to recover, though the news still hits you hard -- still festers somewhere in the depths of your ribs, plants its seed as a reminder to flower every hour on the hour.  to make you remember that this is real.  

things go on as normal for the first few days -- as normal as it can be, at least, without a guide to lead them to eternity, their own brand of utopia.  you are uneasy on your throne; the feeling that the bad seed that’s started to fester in your insides is taking root in your family to make them restless with their own malcontent.  you don’t blame them for wanting to hide, the snake will look for a den when it’s healing and so too, do your kin.  it’s probably the best advice you can give at the moment -- to lay your heads low, my dear children; strike only when attacked.  

the bad seed still festers on your insides and you know that something beyond the obvious is really wrong.

whispers.  that’s all that it starts with, the mouth of a loyalist hissing in your ear the dirty words of mutiny and a fire from within.  you listen with closed lips and savage eyes; heretic! your mind screams.  those who pledge allegiance to jung joonyoung and then dare to cross him deserve whatever hell they are to pay.  you kiss the snakechild and call him good for bringing you this gift; you keep the news like the folded paper heart inside your chest.  protected.  concealed.  contained.

a few days of fun is all that they will be gifted.  it takes that long for the devout to rear to the snakemother’s side where they would have immediately slithered to joonyoung, and you do not fault them for this.  you would have been the same, but eventually you succeed because their talks of riots on the inside is not something that you’ll stand for -- not something a true cottonmouth would stand for.  joonyoung is their leader, their prophet, their messiah.  he is the one who deserves kingship.

you hear the name kim insoo and you want to crush him beneath your hand.  

joonyoung would have already quelled their anarchy with an inferno of his own, burning white hot and drenched in the blood of the blasphemer.  he would have gutted them pretty on your floor while you watch on with a frown sitting on your doll lips that never smile.  the eyes of a disapproving mother watching the child be punished will be your own while the blood of the sinner dances in the air until it strikes you in the cheek.  ( you are always dirtied by the blood of the unholy, but he has always cleansed your skin. ) 

but you, you are not jung joonyoung.  you are ember, the slow burning fire willing to ignite a hell more grievous.  lethargy sits in your bloods and you let the information simmer -- the peon kim insoo, just an extortionist.  he thinks he is not expendable, that the snake children will heed to his side.  he is a coward that makes your lip curl.  

you will deal with this yourself.  the ninth circle of dante’s inferno is built for one such backstabbing heretic like this and he is already burning on the funeral pyre in your mind.  may he rot there for all eternity trapped in the ice of judas; the thoughts in your head are unforgiving as your fist.  a snake is unafraid of the blood on their fangs and the wicked deserve to be damned by the devil’s bride, his right hand.

so it begins.

                                                       「    INTERLUDE    」

ʏᴏᴜ remember that day in the rain  because it was both the beginning and your undoing.  your hair was soaked through and cold just like the rest of you.  he was  a dark man with a devil’s smile and it was  just so easy to pull you in ( to give you the  things that even  you  didn’t  know you were looking for ).  he always had  that way about  him.  he  was a seer on the nights you looked  to him adoringly  and  copied down  his word in your little black book.

                     he would have seen this  nonsense coming,  as did you.  you felt it in                      some dark place  taking root  in your belly  like a  child, pregnant with                      your worries.  he’s gifted you with many things,  this  time it’s his odd                      foresight - the vision of  what’s bound to come.  may the  family reign                      high on a city inferno while the treacherous rots in his own hell.

you don’t know what you’ll do without him.

                 「    ACT THREE    」      -       THE MOTHER EATS HER YOUNG

ᴊᴜᴅɢᴍᴇɴᴛ day.

kim insoo is a small man made smaller by his own rambunctious dreams.  your lips curl when you see him but he takes it as a smile, when he sits across your table.  it is amazing how the little men always pretend that they’re doing nothing wrong, that their actions in an unjust world are just.  he is no different when his lips taste your wine, when his filthy hands cut your bread.  he eats like a glutton and you fold your hands daintily in your lap -- this is his last meal, and the only thing you’re hungry for is his head on a shining silver platter.  it would be both a reminder and a victory -- that cottonmouth is a family that won’t fall to the likes of lying, forked tongues.

you still can’t believe he has the nerve to sit at your table and hope to touch your skin.

the very thought of it makes you want to retch.  the thought of a man like this touching you and soiling your skin ( again ) is enough to send you shivering into the depths of the darkness from whence you came -- the darkness that joonyoung saved you from by giving you salvation.  by cleansing your skin with just a bare touch of his hand.  it’s the thought of him that reminds you that you are the snakemother -- proud of your kin, cold and calculating as you look at him through lashed eyes while you take a sip or two of your own wine.  you know if you turn your back he’d likely douse the glass with drug.  it wouldn’t be below a man like this.  this is why he doesn’t deserve his place in cottonmouth.

perhaps he never did.  mutiny is treason.

pepper stings your throat and heats your insides.  anger coils somewhere in the pit of your belly and with rage comes dessert -- the poetic ending.  you’ve given him his fill and now it’s time; you are not a cruel mother.  once upon a time you looked on him with pride, too.  your chair scrapes slowly against the floor as you push yourself out from the table and he looks at you with eyes still hungry.  that’s the problem with men like this, you think.  they always want more than they can eat.

and so it goes on.  your steps are slow and you can tell he’s eager for what’s to come ( or what he believes is about to come ).  not many -- if any -- can say they slept with the devil’s bride, and that’s why you play right into his hands, his fantasies.  because then, he is playing right into your own.  he never suspects a thing.  how easy it is to play it coy with men like this, like kim insoo -- you just keep your head down with eyes taking a peek through your lashes and he’s almost salivating.  it’s disgusting.  but he will never see the glint of silver hiding in your belt as you move behind his chair, touch his chest.  that’s when you whisper in his ear.

i know.

he freezes, as he should.  all bad children do, and it’s such a shame because the very act tells you everything without a single word.  guilty as charged.

the knife in your belt makes its way to your hand as he starts to stammer out apologies before you, lay his begging on the table.  you should have crossed someone else, you coo.  i’m in a bad mood.  he doesn’t see it coming when the knife slits his throat but he gurgles enough in realization.  this is the end of a rebellion on the inside, ended by your own hand.

the phone is your next operation and you’re calling the only person trustworthy enough to clean this up without a trace -- the only person who whispered his fealty in your ear and handed over the name of the rotten.  “ gen?” insoo’s lifeblood spills in a puddle on the floor and you are sullied by its filth.  ( later, you’ll take a shower for hours and scrub your skin raw of his sin. )  “ i have a bit of cleaning for you to do.” 

Jinwoon was relieved the owners (Mr. and Mrs. Park) sent him home early since it was a slow night. Any trouble that came up they could handle. . . well in theory. Leaving through the back entrance he lit a cigarette planning to go to the clubs. The evening rush of people heading home from school or work had died down. Taking a drag the male realized this was the 1st time in months he left at this hour. He almost always left the restaurant close to midnight and if he was lucky before 11pm. His studies were an after thought as the he finished the work way ahead of the deadline or crammed at the last minute. As long as he had high marks his parents didn’t ask to many questions as to how he received them. 

“Spare some change,” a soft voice rings in his ear as he feels a tug on his sleeve. Jinwoon pulls away seeing a kid at least 10 years younger than him. Don’t they know they’re touching a $1,000 dollar suit!? “Spare some change.” The voice is a little louder now but he ignores them. “Please. . . .”

Something about that hits him in heart. There’s a sense of desperation that he only heard a few times in his life. Finishing his cigarette he gets a better look at them but is confused. The kid’s features don’t hint at either gender giving them an androgynous look. Jinwoon could’ve sworn it was a male speaking but looking at them they could be female. Their clothes or what makes up of them are torn and dirty. He wonders how any parent could let their child reach a point so low. 

“Hey. .. kid,” his voice is gentle as he crotches down to look in their eyes but find they’re fixed on the ground, “you shouldn’t talk to strangers. You it’s a dangerous thing to do.”

“. . . .Min. . .” they answer then look in his eyes, “Tell me your name so we won’t be strangers then.” They smile big.

He’s taken back at such cleverness or maybe it’s stupidity, “Jinwoon. Where are your parents? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“They’re not here. . .I don’t go anymore. . . pleeeeeeeeeeease.” Min says grabbing his hand with both of their own, “you got money! Even if it’s not a lot you still got some. Look at how your dressed.”

So maybe you wanted to be given more than another face in the crowd and an order to exterminate a stranger, something other than fear and desperation. Maybe a list of rules to play by: a dictated weapon, a determined way of death, a time, a place, a handicap to prove your worth. 

Dear so-and-so, I’m sorry you died by my hands. Dear so-and so, I’m sorry I left you evicerated, you poor sad thing. Dear so-and-so, I’m sorry your pizza was poisoned but isn’t death by pepperoni a bit lame? 

You want a better story? Fine.

A beautiful day, then. A blue sky dotted with the occasional white cloud and a pleasant breeze. A walk in the park and nearly two weeks of preparation. Another curiosity killed the cat scenario. 

Aren’t you bored by now? Shall I continue? Well, don’t blame me later. 

He’s fidgety; his hands give away the signs of a heavy smoker under stress. He wants fame, a name to a face, to be remembered. So many do but you wished for something other than mere desperation. This is turning out to be disappointing. 

He lives alone. Had a girlfriend who had a cat. Maybe it was a ploy for attention or spite or look at me successful now I hope you regret what you’ve done. How petty, how human, how pathetic. You can read it from the lines between his eyebrows and the set of his jaw. You would yawn but the faster this is over, the quicker you can move onto something of more interest. Someone who presents a challenge, has you backed against a wall and is worth the sense of guilt that comes when rigor mortis sets in. Someone you can commemorate in long term memory. 

Anyways, he lives alone and has a technician scheduled to come in today for light fixtures, for little upgrades, for splurges someone with his salary shouldn’t be making. But you don’t help others make value judgement. You don’t weigh the scale either; you are merely Atropos’ scissors. 

From here, you should be able to tell how the story ends. I’ll continue if you insist. 

The uniform is uncomfortable with a name not your own stitched above the pocket. Fingers press the floor he resides on, you already committed the layout of his house to memory. Hands already gloved as they grip the toolbox. You get off, ring the doorbell, say hello with that trained pleasant smile of yours. You take a look at where he wishes to install the fixture, prepare the ladder and the climb, then a hand around his neck and you shove him against a wall, stop interrupting. I’m getting to it. 

Here is the image of murdering a man.                                                                                                                           Crossed out. Skilled hands in a locked room. Crossed out. Strangulation marks that blossom on the neck. Crossed out. A fish gaping or a man who looks like a fish. Crossed out. 

A casket hidden in the box marked for a chandelier that was never there, bound to be shipped out tonight where the other side will end the magic act. 

Leave no trace. You hope Miss Han won’t mind if you take that literally. A murder without a body; a name protected. 

Now if this was a story, what role would you be playing? So yes, maybe you are the knight. Although you are among many, serving the same princess. Reciprocation does not exist; life was never fair to begin with. Or maybe you’re the dragon because the knight protects but the dragon slays. Perhaps the knight was always the dragon to begin with.