HIT

1: first kill

1000 Won = 1 Dollar

Busan, The Laughing Dragon restaurant (Wednesday)

Crimson red napkins, polished silverware, and shiny glasses were sitting on the tables in different states of used, and although it was eight in the evening and almost all the tables were occupied, the restaurant was exceptionally quiet.

But the silence was part of the atmosphere. This restaurant had a guestlist and two intimidating men at the entrance, dressed in all black and with an expression as blank as a fresh sheet of paper. The lady next to them, who checked the names on the list, looked almost fragile between those mountains. Her pitch-black hair was pinned up skillfully and held in place with several golden hair slides that glittered in the light of the big silken lampions, and the crimson traditional Chinese dress she wore was decorated with a filigree golden pattern. She was the cherry on top of the high-class Chinese restaurant where half of South Korea's businessmen and politicians dined when they were visiting Busan.

Every time Yoongi rushed out to serve a table, he scanned the room and looked over to the door to check if his guest of interest had already arrived. Mr. Lee was a dead man, he just did not know, yet. He would come to this restaurant with one of his business partners like he always did on Wednesdays and Fridays and eat his last meal. He would become a silent kill.

Yoongi hated silent kills. They were longsome and tedious. For three months he had been working in this restaurant to wait for this special evening, and he would not even see his target dying. What a shame. But safety came first, and having Lee dying right after he drank his whisky would be troublesome. Thus, the poison he had chosen would kick in some hours later when the man was on his plane to Tokyo. The flight was what made this evening the perfect date for the kill. Once Lee was on the plane, no one would suspect the restaurant to be at fault. At least not until Yoongi could pack up his fake existence and leave Busan.

"Taemin!" one of the assistant cooks shouted when he entered the kitchen. "Number 54 for table 7!"

Kim Taemin. That was his name for the time of the job. Tomorrow Kim Taemin's summer work contract would end and so would his existence. Tomorrow he would turn back into Ahn Jaehoon, the businessman from Seoul as whom he had checked in at a hotel in Busan three days ago. But for today, he was a waiter, and so he grabbed the plate that was placed on the counter and left to serve the guest.

"Taemin, my dear boy," the old, wrinkled man with the warm eyes greeted him. Mr. Hoon had taken a liking to him, judged by how he was always secretly slipping a generous tip into his pocket. Yoongi was not sure whether that was a grandfatherly gesture or a sugar daddy's. Either way, he did not hate money and he would be gone soon, so why should he complain.

"Mr. Hoon, nice to welcome you again at our restaurant. Can I help you with something else?" he greeted the old man politely and bowed a little deeper than necessary. If he had to name anything that he hated more than the exhaustion and the hurting feet and back in the evening, it would be the constantly friendly face he had to put on. It was tiring.

Interacting with people was another reason he hated silent kills for. He would always prefer lying for hours on a cold roof in the middle of winter waiting for his target to walk in front of his rifle over spending weeks with 'colleagues' and 'customers'. Sadly, the sniper kills became rarer, because everyone wanted their enemies to die like it was an accident or a disease. Less trouble with the police, same gain.

"No, my son, I'm good for now," Mr. Hoon dismissed him, and Yoongi went back to the kitchen to get the next orders.

Half an hour passed until Mr. Lee finally stepped through the door and was guided to his table by the woman in red. Yoongi had seen this face so often, he felt like they were old acquaintances. He was sure that if he tried, he could draw Lee blindly. Every of the small wrinkles around his eyes and the mole at his high hairline, the glossy light-brown eyes, that always looked like he was about to cry, and the strong nose with the arching upper lip underneath. His target was not attractive, but not unattractive either. Just a face you would forget after seeing it once unless you had studied it from photographs for more than three months.