September 12, 20XX – New York City, USA
On the street, the lamps still glowed though it was already midnight. A tall man in a Saint Laurent black overcoat held a brand-new Executive cigarette in one hand. Slowly, he brought it to his lips. A match was struck—the flame flared briefly. He lit the cigarette. Smoke filled his lungs with each measured breath. Then, with a quiet exhale, the smoke drifted upward, dissolving into the air.
New York is always like this—bustling, hurried, as if the whole city never sleeps. People pass each other under the streetlights without sparing a glance. No one noticed the man standing silently in a narrow alley, where darkness clung to every moldy wall like night fog. How long had he been standing there? Five minutes? Ten? Perhaps more than an hour. It didn't matter. The truth was, no one saw him. Not a soul paid him any mind. And that was ideal—a gift this city bestowed upon people like him, those who lived in shadows and worked in silence.
His eyes watched the glowing street beyond, where crowds surged like a restless tide in the heart of New York. His gaze was anything but ordinary—sharp, feral, like a tiger lying in wait in the jungle, stalking its prey's every movement. Each glance was precise, cold, as if he were calculating, selecting from the faces passing the alley's edge, from the hurried figures unaware of the eyes dissecting them from the darkness. Who would be his prey among the hundreds passing by? A busy man? A young girl holding wilted flowers? Or some forgotten soul? It was a difficult choice.
Yet beneath that predatory look was a strange stillness. Because in truth, he wasn't seeking anyone but himself. He was savoring the moment—that narrow space thick with human breath and the heat radiating from the bustling crowd made him feel alive. In this indifferent city, where no one cared for anyone else, he found warmth to soothe a soul long frozen without comfort.
And then... he looked down. The prey he craved had been lying at his feet all along. The question of "who would it be" had merely been a game, dragging out his final moment of indulgence. Nothing more.
He took another deep drag from the half-burned cigarette in his hand. His gaze finally settled on the source of the faint breath. A middle-aged man curled on the cold ground, clutching his stomach. Blood soaked his entire body—dark crimson pooling on his face, hands, legs, stomach, back. His pale skin was ghostly under New York's moonlight. Even through darkness, the red glistened—frightening, visceral, a color that made people recoil as if death were breathing softly at their ears, hiding in every crevice, watching each cell tremble in horror. The smell of blood mixed with the damp air, forming a suffocating stench, as if the night itself absorbed the pain, turning it into part of its body.
Silence consumed the space. Only the sound of a pounding heartbeat remained—unclear whether it belonged to the living or the dying prey screaming in silence.
The man's trembling hand reached out, touching his Salvatore Ferragamo shoes—blood-slick and red from the cold. Dry lips struggled to form faint pleas—desperate words of physical and spiritual agony that hung frozen in the still air. He no longer had the strength to say more.
Humans are strange. Only when pushed to the edge of suffering do they reluctantly acknowledge their sins.
"Rape, human trafficking, exploiting underage labor... You've done more than I expected." His deep voice was calm, void of emotion. Yet it made the writhing man shiver uncontrollably.
"I... I truly regret it! Please, spare me! I'll pay you—more than the client offered. Just give me a chance to live!"
The sinner's begging made him chuckle. More? How much more? Even if this filth offered everything he had, it didn't matter. He had no interest in such dirty, disgusting money.
"Velious, we know each other. I'll be gentler with you than I am with others. Don't worry."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a SIG Sauer P226—a fine weapon, and even finer as the instrument of this man's end.
Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
The shot rang sharp in the quiet alley. Of course, it didn't disturb the joys unfolding on the main road. Blood splattered, mingling with the air's metallic tang. He aimed so precisely there was no need for a second shot. One bullet was enough to end the man's life—leaving no breath, no final word.
This was his job—a soul handed over to the rigid rules. Receive the order. Find the target. Eliminate. No choice. No refusal.
But when your hands are soaked in cold blood, is there still room to feel regret—a feeling circling endlessly in the cage of fate already sealed? No. Because he had no other choice. He could only keep walking, step by step, down a road stained red and filled with the pain of sins that could never be washed away.
For the average person, seeing so much blood—its overwhelming stench filling the air—would be terrifying. But not for him. What once seemed unbearable had become strangely normal. He stared at the cooling corpse without a flicker of emotion. No fear. No hesitation. Perhaps, after hundreds of such scenes, he had become numb—hardened against this grotesque reality.
His slender fingers reached again for an Executive cigarette. He lit it, inhaled deeply, then looked out at the street. He stood silently for a while, lost in thought. As the cigarette burned down, the night grew colder. He pulled out his phone, opened the contacts, and dialed a familiar number.
"It's done, Kwon," came the voice from the other end before he could even speak.
"Yeah." His reply was gentle—so unlike the scene at his feet.
"Cold as ever. You're off duty now. Leave the rest to me."
The call ended. He tucked the phone away and glanced once more at the lifeless body. Just for a second.
Then he stepped over it and left the alley without looking back. His steady footsteps merged into the crowded main road—back into the rhythm of a city that never sleeps. Another workday had ended, its quiet fatigue fading into the dim light of a dying cigarette underfoot.
By Anna Lee