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Caramel skin and honey-gold eyes, burnt-black hair and cigarette sticks. He's nothing but a nameless face in the crowd.
(
con art·ist
noun. a person who cheats or tricks others by persuading them to believe something that is not true.
)
The burner phone in his pocket rings and rings and rings, he flips it open with a blank face. Lighting the end of his cigarette, watching the embers flicker and filling his lungs with smoke his puffs out the smog from his lungs.
"What do you want, Laurent?"
"Ah! Your english has gotten better, how have you been?"
"Don't play games, what do you want?"
His fingers snatch over there wallet of some embezzling employee―Jason or something―and he walks away.
".. I need you to book me a flight to Japan."
He smirks. "You finding someone to play doctor for your synthetic drug?"
"Edamura, sound familiar?"
"The trafficker?"
"He had a son, the boys wonderfully adebt at fooling people. If he had s little help her could be one of the best."
"Twelve noon tomorrow. Have fun in Saitama,"
"Wait―it's in Fukui!"
He smirks again. "Have fun in Saitama, Laurent! Call me when you meet the boy, yeah?"
