crimson

Your assignment is simple. You are given the name and the workplace of a particular man that has been digging his nose where it doesn’t belong. Files have been dug through, names have been looked up, and strange rumors of Han Chaeyoung have been uttered from his mouth; your elegant leader doesn’t find it suitable for him to continue it any longer, so you are set up to the task to eliminate him at all costs. Use whatever you like, just be sure not to leave a trace. Any wind of Miss Han’s name around the death will shout warning bells to everyone and anyone connected, and we must ensure that does not happen at any cost. Do your best, and please remember; failure is not an option! 

Every morning the maple leaves.                                Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts             from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out                                              You will be alone always and then you will die. 

— Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out 

you waited.

but higher ups want answers, preferably in the form of an executed mission, and preferably as soon as possible. and so time is running out. what do you do now? 

usually, silence is a reply in of itself but you’ve gotten stubborn. like when you were seven and tried to stay up to take a glimpse at santa claus. ( you hope the conclusion isn’t the same. you remember the bitter taste of disappointment watching your mother place the presents under the small plastic tree ) you like higher rates of survival, higher chances at securing money, and maybe you like being right as well. 

so here you are, in suit and tie ( again ) waiting. trademark of your company’s uniform in the plain white shirt and pale blue tie, a personal touch in the way glasses are seated high upon the bridge of your nose. hair tousled, warm cup of coffee in hand, and continued glances at your watch. humans are marked by routine, plus and minus a few minutes. 

and there he is. the game begins again. 

eyes focus on the documents on hand, the coffee with the green emblem in the other. the walk is brisk, calculated, and right into him. coffee sloshes out of its container and onto the boy’s shirt. you feign suprise: eyes wide, lips parted, and the “oh my god. i’m so sorry. i--” as you try to wipe off the stain to the best of your ability. but in all honesty it is just a napkin dabbing at everywhere — a distraction — as you slip a piece of paper into his hands. 

it has a number — yours to be precise — and a simple scrawled out note: i need your reply by tonight. 

“forgive me,” you offer him one of those sheepish smiles, as if you were truly sorry for ruining one of his shirts, allowing pink to dust your cheeks as you resume to trying to clean up your mess. you pull out a hankerchief ( soft, white, with flowers embroidered into the corner because this is what your mother does to take her mind of work ) and take his hands in yours before offering it like an olive branch. 

there’s a flurry of papers, an indication of his temperament as they garnish his table, all askew. he grunts as he sits, you think this is an indication of future ailments as eyes catch onto a file before it gets tucked away with the rest of the papers. the picture depicted a young man, the profile detailed his age and other undisclosed information. you remember giving yours away, probably there amidst the other files. 

hands in your pocket, a posture of ease as you wait for him to finally get to the point. i have something for you, he starts. no shit, why else would you be here to begin with? pleasantries are exchanged first, it is amusing how people cling to norms like this, before the task is given away with great description. the head begins to plot, thumbing through the presented papers to visualize the process. a definite challenge if one was to head into this alone, an alliance would heighten your chances but you’ve never been one to share. 

but let us speak in the language of ifs for a moment. if you were to partner up with another individual… if you were willing to split the reward in half… who would you pick ? 

cufflinks, tie clip, a tailored suit — the modern armor for gentlemen or something along those lines. you chuckle because never once have to dressed to impress to this extent. yet you are here, entering a bar, and scanning the crowd for a single face. it doesn’t take long and you pretend not to take notice of it, walking towards the bartender and ordering a drink, observing casually from where you are positioned. a fort is built due to location and this is merely yours. 

long sips as you study mannerisms, noting the differences between his behavior amongst his peers and that of conferences. you’ve never really paid attention to the other individuals, perhaps you ought to. a mental note is filed to do so more often. 

one of his female companions gape as you are caught openly staring. this was the point and now the game begins. 

your gaze unwavering as she nudges your target and when he turns, you raise your glass in a toast. fingers beckon him forward with no concern towards possible rejection. group think, peer pressure, social psychology has dictated how this transaction would go — if facades were meant to be kept. 

he approaches and you slide him a small slip of paper. business card of sorts but not quite. it is details of your affiliation and what you want from him: an alliance for a simple task and an equal split of the reward — no more and no less.