“C’mon Jay, give me a break.  We just got back, didn’t we?”

            The whining of my “friend” is like an obnoxious bird, twittering in my ears as I step over the threshold into the lobby.  “Yes, we just got back, Lee,” I reply, wishing almost that my next job would be to kill him.  It would make life so much easier.  “But unlike you, I am intent on getting as much done as possible in my short, paragonic life.”

            Lee only frowns at the answer.  “You’re such a pessimist,” he mutters to himself, shuffling past and scuffing the floor and the soles of his shoes as he goes past me.  I let him do it.  Never walk in front of someone.  The back is the best.  You can see them and unless they have eyes in the back of their head, they can’t see you.  Just one of the many things I’ve been told in my 26 years of life.  Someone like Lee calls me a pessimist for following such ideals in the presence of “friends.”  I wouldn’t call it pessimistic as much as smart.

            “Your life is neither short, nor paragonic,” Lee gripes on, rubbing the back of his neck without even a backward glance at the person now in his disadvantage point.  “You’re 26 and you’re not even disabled, you get all the jobs and all the girls…and paragonic isn’t even a word.”

            He’s correct in that sense, but I get the feeling Lee hasn’t a clue what my use of the word actually means.  By all means I would call myself a paragon for anyone here.  I’ve been raised as the epitome of the thing they’re striving to reach.  Everyone here, including Lee, is trying to be the perfect killer.  And heaven knows that I already am that.

            Introductions?  Droll but necessary.  My name is Jang Hyunseung.  I am as of current 26 years old.  I am the son of the head of the infamous SIJ organization.  My father happens to also be my boss.  I’ve been working as a contract since I was ten.  I was raised as a killer.  You’d be hard pressed to find a better example anywhere.

            Few people can literally say killing is in their blood.  But I suppose you could say I am one of the rare few.

            “Come up with another word that fits the definition and I’ll use that, then.”

            Lee snorts, walking up to the receptionist desk instead of answering.  The girl who sits at it, the girl with the long black hair and gold rimmed glasses, doesn’t even look up.  “Do you have an appointment?”

            The question is merely a ply to chase away unwanted visitors.  The entrance to the organization, of course, is disguised.  Most sorts of organizations like ours have enough sense to be secretive about their main offices, so SIJ headquarters are disguised as…a business corporation.  Complete with fake receptionist and everything.  Some people say the ploy is completely useless, because usually the only people who enter the building are our agents.  But then again, it’s always more beneficial to be cautious.  “Better safe than sorry,” as it’s been put.

            I’ve already learned that Lee is one of the people who thinks our “receptionist” is pointless.  “Do you even need to ask, Hanna?”  Lee grimaces.  “You already know it’s us…”

            Choi Hanna is the guard usually on duty and she takes the job more seriously than anyone.  Her diligence is something that should be admired, but Lee and many others just find it annoying.  “Why do you even do that?  It’s not like I’m some enemy agent,” is a common excuse used to try to avoid bothering with the password.  Every time she hears it, though, Hanna will just reach for the key on the keyboard that activates the special defense built into the front desk—various guns and projectile shooters that fire upon command—and the action in itself soon enough extracts the proper pass phrase from the offender.

            Lee isn’t quite the type to realize this fast enough to keep us from getting blown up, so I cut in before it can happen.  “We have an appointment.  It is on the third floor.”

            An appointment on the third floor is the password that was created for this month.  It varies from time to time; for example, last month’s phrase was “No, but someone is expecting me.”  The month before that was “My meeting has been arranged in advance.”  Dozens of passwords are used interchangeably, and they all serve the purpose as the first line of defense.  AS for the second line of defense…well, let’s just say Choi Hanna is an exceptionally good shot.

            She nods curtly, the side of twitching into a slight smile.  “You may enter.”

            “Great to know,” Lee grumbles with more sarcasm than necessary, shaking his head as he walks past the receptionist desk towards the elevator.  “You coming, Jay?”

            Choi Hanna turns back to her computer without meeting my eyes.  Behind her dark curtain of hair, I can see her faces reddens slightly.  “You’d better go,” she says, studying the video surveillance that monitors the outside.  “Otherwise that idiot may get himself shot in the elevator.”

            I don’t doubt that possibility, so without a reply, I follow.

            Should there be someone who manages to get past the first two defenses, the third is built in right next to the elevator.  It’s an eye scanner next to the door, and it only opens if it recognizes you.  If it doesn’t, you won’t know until you actually step into the elevator, when the machine guns blow you to pieces.

            If it hasn’t become obvious, intrusions, mistakes and negligence aren’t exactly tolerated here.

            “You know she likes you,” is the first thing Lee informs me as he puts his eye to the scanner.  It beeps after a minute.  He steps aside.

            “Does she?”  As the door opens, I walk in, pushing the button for the second floor.  Lee jumps in right before the door closes, looking at me like I’m an idiot.

            “Seriously?  You’ve got to have noticed.  She only, you know, stares every time you walk by.”

           Of course I’ve noticed.  I roll my eyes at the thought.  I’d have to be the most bumbling twit on the planet not to.  No, Lee is alluding to more than just the fact that Hanna has gained some dangerous infatuation, and I’ve known him long enough to know his comment is his way of asking, “Well, why haven’t you done anything about it?”

            “I’ve noticed.”

            The elevator begins moving, only it moves down rather than up.  The biggest reason that the design of the building is so ingenious is because the majority of it is hidden underground.  To the average person, it looks like an innocent 1 story office building.  But anyone who works for us knows it’s actually the base for the SIJ corporation.  IT’s five stories, over 5000 square meters, and is fortified with every security measure thinkable. 

            Lee is apparently unsatisfied with my lack of elaboration on the subject, because he interrupts my thoughts to point it out.  “And?”

            “I believe that it is her problem, not mine.”

            He groans in exasperation.  “Don’t tell me this is your stupid girl paranoia again—“

            “You’ve still yet to give me a legitimate reason as to why exactly it’s paranoia and why it’s stupid.”

           What he means is that I have the tendency to not get involved with women, or not emotionally, that is.  After all, what is love?  The concept itself is pure fiction.  What people call love is merely lust.  So no, I don’t believe in love.  Lust, maybe.  But not love.  Hence, I have no interest in Choi Hanna.  As a lover?  Perhaps.  As a partner?  Definitely not.  Personal relations only serve to tie people down.

            The elevator grinds to a halt, and the doors creak open.  I start towards my father’s office before Lee can retaliate, or worse, start coming up with more questions.  I can only take so much ridiculousness today.

            Some people say that the head of SIJ has an unhealthy obsession with trophies, and frankly I would have to say it’s true.  The idiosyncrasy, however, only can be comprehended as strange if you understand what a “trophy” is for us.  It’s not what a normal person would assume; a trophy is something you’ve taken from someone you’ve killed.  Why do we do it?  Because we can.  It’s like having a token of your efficiency.  Even I have collected a few enemy items here and there.  But the reason why his collecting is called unhealthy is because of what he actually does with it all…

            The office door stands in front of me.  It’s quite plain, just flat metal, but it’s 3 layers thick, bulletproof, and requires a specific code to open it.  I flip open the number pad next to the door, punching in the numbers.  3-6-8-5-0-1-0.  The numbers flash and the door slides open.

            The familiar sight of my father’s office greets me.  All sorts of his “trophies” line the walls; a gun here, a necklace here, a bullet-ridden tie here…there’s even a preserved arm sitting in a tank in the corner.  Apparently my father disremembered it from some bigshot and decided to keep it.  There are items of all types, shapes, and sizes.  Some of them are unorthodox, and some aren’t, like the string of tags hanging from the ceiling.  A tag is the identification most hit-men wear; organizations are known to assign them for management purposes.  SIJ has them too; I have my own hanging off a chain around my neck.  I also have a couple dozen in my desk drawer from the people who’ve gotten in my way.

            My eyes turn to the man sitting at the wooden desk on the other side of the room.  His gaze is intent on examining an open file; I know he’s heard my entrance, but he doesn’t look up.

            Tick.  Tick.  Tick.  The analog clock on the wall counts the seconds that pass.  No acknowledgement.  He just keeps reading.  I repress a sigh.  It’s quite like him to do this…

            Finally, my father speaks, asking a simple question.  Rather, it’s a statement more than a question.  “I assume your assignment was successful.”

            An unnecessary thing to say—any assignment that involves me is always successful.  No matter what idiot I’m partnered with.  “It was.”

            Reaching into my pocket, I withdraw a key-ring.  Two small plates of metal, inscribed with names and numbers, hang off of it.

            My father frowns, picking up the key-ring and examining it with interest.  I’m not compelled to explain but I do anyways.  “He was being protected.”

            My last assignment—the one Lee and I were on—involved eradicating a wealthy business man.  We learned soon after confronting him that he was wealthy enough to hire bodyguards.

            He nods slowly.  “What organization?”

            “It was BREAK again.”

            That sort of explanation normally irks him, but this time his mouth twitches into a flat line.  It’s the closest thing to a smile he was.  “Ironic.”

            Jang Jonghyun—my father—is the head of the SIJ.  Why are we called SIJ, you might ask?  It stands for Sal-inja.  The literal translation of SIJ corporation is the killer corporation.  It’s straight forward, you could say.  Killing is the biggest aspect of the job description.

            And Jang Jonghyun is the one who makes that happen.  He’s the graying man who sits in the office all day.  I don’t think my father has seen legitimate action for decades—not since I was born, at least.  And that was 26 years ago.  My father is currently 52 years old.  In our line of business, we call that old.  A contract killer isn’t expected to live past 35, maybe 40 at most.  I think the main reason my father has lived so long is because he retired from service so long ago.  Being the head isn’t as dangerous of a job as you’d think—calling the shots has little hazard, and whatever hazard that it does possess is minimized by the strict security measures constituted here.

            Now, this entire time I’ve only mentioned my father.  Who is the woman who birthed me?  My mother is, rather, was Park Hyun Ae.  She was an SIJ agent and that was how my parents met, when they were both assigned to the same mission.  My father wasn’t actually put as head until around the time I was born.  But here’s the point of the story; neither my father nor my mother were expected to live long.  My mother died in action a few months after I was born.

            Don’t be expecting sentimentality, now; I don’t remember her much, anyways.

            I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I nearly forget to answer.  I remember as I look up at my father, who’s waiting patiently for my response.  “Why is that ironic?”

            “You’ll see in a minute.”  My father lays down the tags, sliding them across the desk.  I pick them up and repocket them.  “How do you feel about undercover assignments, Hyunseung?”

            Hyunseung.  It’s my real name but the only one who calls me by it is my father.  Everyone else calls me Jay.  The nickname stems from my last name—Jang.  To avoid familiarization, most of us—Lee, Choi Hanna, me—refer to our companions by surnames.  But people don’t like to call me “Jang,” which I suspect is because it reminds them of their boss.  So they take the first latter of my last name.  J.  So “Jay” it is.

            “I don’t particularly despise them,” I say, which is true because I don’t.  But I don’t like them either.

            My father chuckles.  It’s a joyless noise, similar to the sound of a fork trapped in a garbage disposal.  “And if the undercover assignment involves a female?”

            “It makes no difference what gender the assignment involves.”

            He puts the file down on his desk, so that the text is facing me.  I study the lines of black.  It takes me a minute, but soon enough I gather the nature of the assignment.

            “A BREAK agent,” I conclude.  Indeed, that could be called ironic, couldn’t it?  I pick up the picture provided.  A girl stares out defiantly, glaring at the camera.  She’s wearing what looks like a schoolgirl’s uniform, and her brown hair is shorn short, almost like a boy’s.  “You want me to kill her?  She’s just a child.”

            “That picture is from her high school yearbook.”  He flips the page of the file.  There are more pictures of the same girl, but she’s not in a uniform and she’s definitely older.  Her hair is longer, past her shoulders, and she’s wearing a tightfitting dress and stiletto heels.  She’s holding a gun.  She looks like a completely different person, except for the fact that there’s still the same defiant look in her eyes.

            “High school,” I echo, frowning slightly.  It’s a foreign concept; I’ve never been to school.  A waste of time, as my father’s put it.  Not many hitmen even finish high school.  “That’s unusual.”

            My father nods in agreement.  “She’s quite an unusual girl.”

            “But why her?”  Technically I’m not supposed to ask questions, but honestly one of the things I hate the most is uncertainty.  If I’m being sent off to kill someone, I might as well know why I’m doing it.  “She’s…”  I cast my eyes down at the paper again and look back up.  “Kim Hyuna is just one agent of dozens.  She’s not even a division leader.  What’s so special about her?”

            People have said that it’s ridiculously easy to tell when the head of SIJ is irritated, and coupling that with the fact that I’m extraordinarily good at figuring out what people are really feeling, I can tell that my questions aren’t exactly ideal.  My father looks at me with a mix of amusement and irritation.  “Do you really need to know?”

            Well, that’s a stupid question.  “Yes, I do.”

            “Alright.”  He leans back in his chair, and the wood creaks with his weight.  “I assume you haven’t heard of her before.”

            He assumes a lot, and most of the time it’s true.  “No, I haven’t.”

            My father picks up the file, flicking through the pages lazily as he speaks.  “We’ve had our eye on Kim Hyuna for a while now.  You could say that because in the world of contracts, she’s a special case.  She was born as a normal girl.  Her parents were in no way connected to our world.  But when she got to high school…”  He stops on a page and holds the file out to me.  “She got into some complications.”

            The page is a picture and a paper that looks like an application form.  I look closer and realize it’s a death certificate.  The name at the top is “Sung Tae Jun.”  I’ve never heard of him, either, but according to the certificate he died over 5 years ago, so that could explain a lot. 

            “So?  A kid that got into the gangs and got shot.”  It’s all laid out on the page—I’m not sure why it’s in any way relevant to Kim Hyuna, though.  “What about it?”

            My father purses his lips at the comment, but continues nonetheless.  “When Miss Kim was 16 years old, it seems she got herself into some trouble with a certain Sung Tae Jun.  As it says on his death record, he was involved with the gangs.  When Kim Hyuna got involved with him, she was getting herself involved also.  One day on an outing, they ran into some children from a gang Tae Jun didn’t particularly like.  Insults were thrown.  Things happened.  The next thing Kim Hyuna knew, her parents were dead and she was in the gang herself.”

            A girl from a gang?  Well, that can explain her recruitment into BREAK, then.  But it doesn’t explain why I’m being sent after her, not in the slightest.  “So she’s a little girl who got herself into someone else’s mess.  Does that mean she’s particularly lethal or what?”

            “If you would stop talking for five minutes, I would explain that.”  He shakes his head in exasperation.  “The reason we’re particularly interested in her is because she has potential.  No, she’s not a division leader, but she’s gotten to the level of one in a quarter of the time it’s taken for others.”  He eyes me.  “Including you.”

            I resist the urge to punch him in the face for saying that, mostly because I know he has a gun in his desk drawer and probably won’t mind using it.  Calm down.  Calm down.  Overreacting gets you nowhere.

            “So you want me to get rid of her before she can reach that potential.”

            “Exactly.”  He waves a hand.  “You need to find her and kill her.  Without her knowing who you are and discretely enough that the organization can’t trace her death back to us.  Can you manage that?”

            More stupid questions.  Aren’t you the one who trained me?  “Yes.”

            “Then, go do it.”  He tosses me the file, which I manage to catch before it hits the floor.  “And leave.  I have more important things to do than chat.”

            I stand and I go, clutching the file in my hand as if it’s life itself.

  _______________________________________

So I’ve finally posted the next chapter.  Sorry for the wait, I was going to have this finished and posted yesterday but I got sick and hence spent the day instead lying in bed having a self-pity party and watching kpop videos for hours upon end

Hyunseung’s POV, hooray!  Yup.  No, paragonic isn’t definitely not a word.  Sounds like it should be one though!  Or maybe that’s just me… 

More OCs popping up in here than I thought there would be O.O  Ah well, just a few more chapters (I think) and it’ll actually get to Hyuna and Hyunseung! : D

(That moment when I get bored and start putting in Kpop song references…)

Note: Hyunseung’s stage name for ‘Troublemaker’ is Jay Stomp, so that’s where I got his nickname from.  I have no clue how he actually came up with it in the first place, so I invented something.  Yaaay