Bloodied Dahlias | Miya Osamu

[VI] Double Cross Part II

TOKYO, TWO YEARS PRIOR | OSAMU

With his eyebrows furrowed in a deep frown, Osamu brought his hand up to the counter and delivered a clean flick to the unsuspecting piece of lint on the acrylic surface of the table. The incessant sound of the storm brewing outside flooded into the store as the automatic doors next to him opened, drowning out the bored sigh that had escaped from his chest. He pressed his palm flat down onto the table, swiping across its length until his fingers fell off the ledge and hit the side of the plastic swivel chair he was sitting on.

His fingers drummed lightly on the side of his thighs as his gaze momentarily followed the newest customer of the convenience store. A young man with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gait an awkward shuffle as he made a beeline to the personal hygiene section of the store.

Ah.

That would explain the slouching and the nervous eyes that darted across the faces of the other occupants of the space. Osamu had found it rather unnerving at first, but it all made sense now that he had added up the elements together. The edge of his lip curved up in a smirk as he continued watching, an elbow propped up on the table as his hand held up the weight of his head.

First time fer anythin' I guess, he mused, watching in amusement as the young man picked up a purple box, his hands clutched nervously around the shrink wrapped package as he scurried towards the cashier to pay for the object. Cute, Osamu thought to himself, swiveling back around in his chair to return his gaze back outside. With his cheeks full though his eyes sunken and patched with dark shades of green and purples hues, Osamu found himself wondering what year of college the young man must have been in. The anxious nervousness matched with the lines around his eyes — second year, perhaps?

Osamu's hand reached up to the edge of his mask, and he pulled the material down to bunch underneath his chin. Kids are so cute, thinkin' that no one's lookin', he thought, chewing at the straw in his drink. Or that everyone's lookin' when they're not even relevant. He let out a quiet chuckle at the thought as he took another sip from his boxed yogurt drink, watching from his peripheral as the college student passed through the doors of the store — package in hand — with a wide beam on his face.

People watching was a hobby that Osamu had picked up after a long time in the game. From where he was positioned, his eyes would wander around the environment in search of any form of entertainment to help the hours trickle past faster. Contradicting the first thing he was taught when he was undergoing his training when he first joined — that distractions were analogous to career suicide — Osamu had found it more of a mental stimulant to keep his mind sharp as he sat idle waiting — preying — for his mark to arrive.

Because the reality was that stakeouts were, objectively, boring as hell. And no matter how many stakeouts he had been on — no matter how well trained he was in the art —nothing else was able to keep his mind sane as he waited.

He sighed, readjusting the cap on his head with his eyes still trained outside the convenience store window. Rooftops and high-rises had always been his preferred locations to watch his enemies — the quiet that accompanied the loneliness had always spelled for calmness rather than discomfort for the man. The way that the world seemed to slow down to a stop with only his body fully animated and the way he could hear the blood rushing into his ears with each heartbeat. He had always been fond of how the hyperawareness of his surroundings had made him more conscious of his own existence. It had made the pull of the trigger ever the more clear, as if the entire world had slowed down to watch as he unloaded his weapon from where he was hidden.