Bloodied Dahlias | Miya Osamu

[V] Double Cross Part I

INARIZAKI, TWO YEARS PRIOR | KITA

A man sat quietly by his desk, his chair angled to face the circular clock on the wall of the otherwise barren room. Plain to those with little knowledge of interior design, minimalistic to designers in the field, and practical to the occupant of the room.

It was a simple layout, with time and care placed into the organization to allow for the ebb and flow of productivity. It was neither aesthetic nor compatibility that drove the direction of the furnishings, but rather the functionality: whether it could do its job promptly and efficiently. The clock the man was staring at was no exception. Digital, the black panel encased in a simple, silver frame. The top line showed the time — 24 hour time, for it was faster and to-the-point — whereas the bottom showed the date and the day of the week. Informative, direct, and effective: just the way it ought to be.

His desk was sleek and modern, traversing half the width of the entire room, and occupied the space to the left of the row of floor-length windows making up the final wall of his office. A glass tabletop sat just above the black oak veneer, partly for design, mostly for ease of cleaning. A circular cork coaster sat idly to his left, a white ceramic mug sitting atop. He wasn't one to spill his tea, and with the help of the coaster, it was unlikely that rings and markings would stain the surface either. Nevertheless, he preferred to be prepared for the worst rather than simply relying on sheer luck to hope for the best.

To his front sat a simple flat screen monitor, the mouse and keyboard accompanying it the usual standard issue for the organization. By his right leg sat rows of filing cabinets, each fashioned with a biometric lock accompanied by a handwritten label to designate its contents. The bare necessities, really, but between his securely filed papers and his computer, it helped him to do his job. There was no need for superfluities, especially not in his line of work, after all.

A stack of manilla folders sat neatly arranged — alphabetically, to be precise — on his desk by his right, their printed labels color-coded by category. His fingers drummed impatiently across the first in the pile, his eyes elsewhere, following the blinks of the seconds counter on the clock.

43, 44, 45...

Kita Shinsuke was feeling restless, to say the least.

It wasn't like him to be in a state of such unease. Uncharacteristic, if you would. He was a man of patience and composure — of resilience and self-restraint. There was a little less than five minutes before his next appointment would pass through the heavy, black oak door of his office, and for once in his entire career, Kita Shinsuke found himself feeling apprehensive about a routine briefing with one of his best operatives.

He raised a hand up to his chest, the thumping of his heart pressing his rib cage against his fingertips with each hurried beat.

He had lost count of the number of times the man he would be meeting had sat in the leather chair across from him. His ears intently listening to Kita's briefing, his hands fingering through the file pushed in his direction. It was a common occurrence if anything, and Kita even recalled looking forward to their meetings on multiple occasions. But the stakes were different this time. It wasn't that this mission would work, it was that it needed to work. Unfortunately, even he didn't know if success would be possible, let alone plausible.

He rested his head against his seat, leaning back in his chair as his eyelids fluttered to a close.

A gamble was what it all was. Kita was never one for the activity, whether it be for leisure or for profit. He had been fond of the occasional game of poker or blackjack, but those were games where mathematics was well embedded within the gameplay. There was rhyme and there was reason, and most importantly, there were the calculated probabilities that dictated the currents of the game.