"For him, I was nothing more than the daughter of his mentor, someone he needed to protect."
"For me, she was more precious than my life itself."
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Nariya Patel sought...
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The Handler:
Warning: This chapter contains acts of violence.
~Alexie Ivanov~
The engine of my car roared along the highway as I made my way towards the eastern end of the city. Signs passed by as I navigated junctions towards my destination—an area well-known for its dock connecting the coast to Eastern Asian countries, notorious for the influx of illegal immigrants. I vividly recall that fifteen years ago, this passage brought me to this country. While it's no longer as squalid as it was back then, the unmistakable stench lingers, a persistent reminder of the past.
Technology has propelled human evolution to a juncture where virtually everything is accessible at the touch of a button. Yet, in the obscure corners of the world, shrouded in mystery for many, certain things remain the exclusive domain of those willing to get their hands dirty. Today, I found myself in need of such unsavory services from a man known in these parts as the Handler.
In the realm where humans dwell, there exists both light and dark. The light is governed by buffoons adorned in ties and smiles, manipulating others for their personal gain. Meanwhile, the dark is ruled by savages who eagerly prey on those thrust into its depths, satisfying their own desires. Many wield influence in the shadows, but only one is dedicated to scrubbing away the filth they leave behind. In his world, he is the one who purges the darkness, allowing the light to persist. What an exaggeration, I had initially thought, when I heard him spout such notions.
However, the influence, or rather the monopoly, wielded by the Handler in the underworld was indisputable. Anyone could aspire to become a mafioso, a thug, a thief, or even a politician, but entry into the realm of "cleansing the world" was restricted solely by the Handler and his stringent control. I chuckled at the notion of a "stringent control." It wasn't a control; it was an unbridled, psychotic rage that instilled fear in everyone around him. There was a time when people distanced themselves from him and his sordid activities.
The first time I encountered him, only three thoughts crossed my mind: why wasn't he named something like the Undertaker, he's unhinged, and I despise him. It was this very disdain of mine that, inexplicably, led the masochistic madman to fall in love with me. A sigh escaped my lips as a wave of disgust churned in my stomach.
The melancholy strains of Lacrimosa filled the confines of my car as I reflected on the information I had hacked the previous night from the assassin's tableau. It revealed that some figure had commissioned a hefty $50 million bounty for Mr. Patel. Typically, one would either fulfill the job or counter with a higher bounty for the originator's head. I was well aware of the individual behind the bounty, but my desire for control demanded a meticulous approach. In the intricate power dynamics at play, a shifting rift of bounties often unfolded, leaving the weakest and most unfortunate target to meet their demise. In my case, that unlucky soul could be Mr. Patel—he was, after all, a more accessible target than the one who placed the bounty.
