“What?”

The question is bluntly asked; in the half-lit archaic-type office coloured in shades of dark mahogany, a slim figure stands swathed from head to toe in clothes of sable sheen, stoically facing the well-built man with greyed hair sitting before him.

“I said,” the older-looking man repeats, his voice of the low, rumbling - and authoritative - kind, “This is your new project.”

The man dressed in all black clicks his tongue in what seems like mild annoyance, lightly tracing the handle of the sheathed dagger that hangs from his upper thigh. “I thought you’d be able to give me a more interesting task. I was actually quite excited, you know.”

The man sitting down draws in a sharp breath, his dark amber eyes glinting in something akin to frustration. “Enough of complaining. This task is the one with the highest reward - and subsequently, the most intense punishment should you fail to complete it. Understand?”

“It’s just killing some stupid rich family.” He scoffs, running a pale hand through his slightly-wavy black hair. “What’s so hard?”

“Understand?” This time, there’s a threat in his tone as he stands from his seat, pinning the younger with a coldly demanding gaze.

The sour expression is replaced with a freezingly insincere smile. He drops his hand to the sheathed weapon by his waist, drawing it just the slightest to reveal the slender dagger. The silver glimmers strongly even in the barely-lit room, and he runs his finger down the blade gently.

They face each other, one’s expression hard and commanding, the other’s unimpressed and sarcastic as his weapon sits unsheathed. The tension hangs thick in the air between them, with an almost oppressive sense of power radiating from both sides; the silence is then broken when the grey-haired man laughs, his lips creasing up into a mockingly amused smile. “Are you threatening me?”

“No,” he spits curtly, slamming the dagger back into its sheath with a finality before turning his back. “Don’t worry, I never fail at what I do.”

 

Dusk finds the young assassin standing in front of a bathroom mirror half-dressed. He runs his eyes over his bared skin, not even reacting to the multitude of old scars marked onto his pale upper body.

Ten years ago, he had entered a whole new world.

It had hurt the first time, the first time a blade had pierced his skin, the first time he was beat for not working harder, the first time he was yelled at, the first time he was told to kill his emotions, the first time a dagger was placed in his palms and he was told to kill.

Now, he feels a blank emptiness, a satisfying nothingness, a calm surrender to the last tugs of insanity.

“Stupid rich guy,” he sighs, “This better be worth my time.”

He slips the dark shirt over his head and steps out of the bathroom, embracing the feel of cold marble under his bare feet. “Park Jungsoo,” he mutters under his breath, “Some good-for-nothing rich the same age as me.”

He lets himself sink into the comfort that his bed provides, opening up his portable device and keying in the target’s name into the search engine - a half-genuine smirk plays on the curves of his bored lips as the results come up instantaneously. Hard to stay discreet when your family is some big-shot in the country’s economy.

An expression of surprise slips over his facial features as he observes the address that appears on the screen in front of him. “Interesting,” he muses to himself, in that deceptively smooth tone of his, “It looks like someone lives in the same area as me.”

He clicks onto the ‘images’ tab, his piercing orbs scanning past the pictures of overly-polished, exuberant events; they finally land on their desired result, a picture of a man of a relatively slender physique with neatly-combed black - or is it dark brown - hair. He’s dressed in a seemingly expensive suit, a well-trained smile painted on his lips.

He hums under his breath as he gazes at the man - not bad, he’d say, but too - too shaped by this society’s manipulative pull and toss, too plastic, too unliberated. At the same time, he’s distinctly aware of his mind instinctively picking out the best places on the man’s delicate, untouched neck to slice, the best way to catch him off his guard, the best spot that he could stab to quickly dispose of the man with minimal noise.

And it no longer shocks him as it used to, because he embraces these thoughts a little now; he has accepted the way society looks upon him as a monstrosity, he has accepted the way he’s lost himself to the lurking insanities that bubble within the essence of him, he has accepted the way he can’t ever go back to ‘normal’, he has accepted the creature that he’s become.

It’s his identity now. His life, his meaning for existence.

It’s a little ironic in a way, how his reason for living is his only means for survival.

He was given an ultimatum when he entered this world - kill, or be killed.

He chose to save himself.

He chose to kill.

And now, it’s the only thing he knows.

He closes his device to take his mind off things that he’d rather not ponder on and stands, grabbing his silver dagger almost as if it were second nature to him.

It is, as a matter of fact.

So - The thought comes to him inherently - When shall I kill him?

The first rule of an assassin is never to underestimate who you’re against.

It’s kind of hard not to be pissed at this kind of easy job, though - assassinating a man living a cushioned life in the same damn neighbourhood as him.

It does occur to him that there would likely be a bunch of other assassins after the man; he supposes that’s part of what makes