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PROLOGUE
The night is eerily silent a small flashlight to guide her trail on the rooftop of a delapitated building. Under the waning moon her bright blue eyes seem to be luminescent and her whitish blond hair carried by the wind, making her look more cryptic, and rather angelic despite her malevolent intentions. She walks slowly-with an undeniable finesse- as she makes her way to the range where she has obliged herself to take the shot.
Comparably, the girl has a small stature for her age, but her aura presents dire circumstances for anyone that walks her way. She may be one of the youngest in the organization of killers, but she is sought after, and highly priced for her early merits and professionalism.
The girl lithely jumps over the clatter, not minding the heavy cello case she bears on her back. Her dainty hand covered in pristine black leather gloves tugs on the straps of the load, relieving the tension placed on her shoulders and keeping her prints off of any surface she comes in contact with. Briefly, she stops, yanking the hood of her loose sweater over her and placing the black surgical mask on, allowing her to blend in the night.
As soon as she reaches the balcony, she spots the building where her target has been staying for the last two days, and with a swift motion, positions the assembled rifle hidden in the inside the cello, placing the muzzle at the edge of the balcony as she lays flat on her stomach-getting comfortable for the long night. Looking through the scope, she finally sees the target alone behind the penthouse window of a high rise hotel, after days of surveillance in the hotel nearby.
As she moves the scope she spot a small flag near the man's location and scouts it, ascertaining the tug of the evening breeze will not lead the bullet astray. The girl glances at the target once more, mentally calculating the bullet's velocity and trajectory with precise accuracy against the silent wind before it finds the man's heart. Although 200 meters away, her view of the man is clear as clear as day; the target is old and of Asian descent, heavy set, with prominent high cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes, having a scar that runs from his mouth to ears- making him look constantly happy; a scar the man bore since he survived the clutch of his enemies three years ago. From then on, the man's paranoia have substantially gotten worst which lead to the employment on an additional dozen to the 6 already with him at the time, which was probably the reason she was hired.
After a brief peek, the blond closes the scope. She learned her lesson to keep her scope constantly close , unless surveying the location of the target or the client has waved her to pull the trigger. Death awaits, if she is discovered pointing a gun to this presumably important man. She remembers the man's jagged scar that runs across the man's cheek and remembers his nickname-the happy man, very literal. The name might be so but the trepedition this man brings wherever he goes is far beyond evil; or so she hears. She's not exactly fond of reading the information, as long as she knows this man is malaign, then she can sleep soundly through the night.
She glances through the scope again, to ensure that her target is still in sight. The man in view half naked in preparation of his routine night bath. Sickened by the grosteque appearance of his saggy skin full of darn scars, she quickly flicks the cover shut to save herself from the bile rising up her throat. For a while she lies down on her back on the filthy floor and staring at the sky studded with millions of stars, thinking of the existance of an almighty power that Anne believes in. The did raise a fair argument about the invincible man's existence but Anne was adamant that this man exist, somewhere than only death, and the ability to follow His commandments will she be able to meet him. If that is true, her existence is an abomination, and soon after her death, she will waltz down the gates of hell. But according to Anne, God forgives those who repent. So despite being skeptical about it, the blond carries the rosary Anne has given her and would pray that God would forgive her for the sin she is about to commit with her reasoning to Him that it is for the greater good.
Her notions are cut short as soon as the earpiece in her ear crackles to life, a typical distorted voice greets her. She flips back to her stomach, prepared to do her biddings. This client is somehow a special case. The man especially requested to talk to her directly to hand the verdict to this man's life. She rolls her eyes in annoyance as the man starts to speak.
"Hello, Calypso. Let's get to business, shall we?" Calypso, she who hides, a metaphor and very literal all in the same. She embodies the words, her reputation lives up to this standard. Her cover was never blown-some came really close- but never failed. If she had then she wouldn't have been there on that rooftop. Although irked, she manages to slip on a smile, the name Calypso presents her with great sentiments.
"That would be great." She curtly. The man on the other end of the line raises his eyebrow, the hired mercenary's voice sounds as young as he has heard from rumours. He pauses for a minute, but realizes that she is probably his best shot of uprotting this man's invasive roots from the City.
"In a rush, are we?" Morgan rolls her eyes, with every ticking second, she's becoming more vexed of this man of contradiction. "Very well. Formalities aside, it is a pleasure doing business with you. The association personally recommended you, as you are the best option they've got, which as you may have noticed requires some distance to do. I trust you know that man to accept this... opportunity?" The voice inclines towards the man with the grusome scar.
"I don't have to know anything," she replies with a cold apathetic voice. She knows that she is paid to do the dirty job but gathering intellegence is her suit- it's another person's job and she prefers not knowing; all the jobs her handlers accept for her are jobs that involve malicious men and , spreading seeds of hatred, violence, and death to where they set foot.
"Perhaps," the man chuckles in a shrill dry tone as he continues. "But it is part of my protocol to tell you anyway. All you need to know is he gave hundreds of people jobs, but ruined four times more; with drug and sex trade, yadayadayada, sad st-," the man's speech abruptly stops when someone snatches her hood, unhooking her earpiece off her ear. Cold metal closes on her neck, and she refuses to shiver-any involuntary movement can get her killed on the spot. Instead, she raises her arms upward -without looking at the gun man- in mock surrender.
"Who sent you here?!" The voice inquires in furious mandarin. A clicking sound by the hammer being pulled makes her eyes flinch in surprise, rather than fear. She got lucky tonight.
"Pierre sent me here, it's rather troublesome really." She answers calmly in the same tongue compared to the man who was still holding the gun against her nape.
"Who the fu-" before he can muster more words the girl lithely kicks the gun upwards and gives the man a round house kick which makes contact with his temples, causing him to sprawl seemingly lifeless on the dusty floor. The girl retrieves the earpiece back, thanking the man that has been dispatched is an amatuer. It is clear he doesn't know the rule in their world, 'shoot, never ask." If it had been someone more experienced, then she would have been dead. This thought made the blond shiver.
"The hell with your protocol, give me your damn order so Id have the chance of getting out of here alive!" The girl whispers furiously at the piece.
The man's phone starts to ring. She knows he only has seconds before they find out what happened to him. She flops back to her stomach, her forefinger carressing the trigger.
"Your orders?" The girl asks impatiently, seeking the target with the scope. The old man rise from the tub, furiously yelling on the phone. Suddenly his eyes widen frantically searching for something, or perhaps someone. But it's too late.
"Very well then," the distorted voice says in distaste of her impolite actions. "Tuer," he calmly declares in a tone of finality and the line goes dead. With that, a silent shot is fired, shattering the thick glass window and rendering the happy man lifeless back in the water where blood starts to tint the bubbly bath with thebeautiful-and sickening- colour of red rose.
***
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