Vincenzo moved with a silent, predatory grace through the sterile, unlit hallway, his footsteps muffled by some unseen design. The corridor, perpetually empty and overlooked, served only as a functional passage in the labyrinthine underworld organization's base. Reaching the elevator area, he didn't wait in the center of the floor; instead he casually leaned back against the cool metal wall beside the call button, his posture relaxed yet ready. When the doors slid open with a faint hydraulic hiss, he straightened and stepped inside without breaking stride.
Habitually, he entered the elevator, his reflection a dark silhouette in the polished steel doors before they closed. He pressed the unmarked button for his subterranean chamber- a restricted, reserved cell designated for the "human weapon" of the underworld boss. They trusted him too much, an oversight in a place where trust was a luxury few could afford, a vulnerability he silently cataloged as the elevator began its smooth descent into the deeper, darker levels of the base.
***
The elevator doors slid open, revealing the familiar, chilling silence of the underground floor. As always, the hallway was deserted, an endless stretch of polished marble leading to the two grand, imposing double doors at its terminus. Vincenzo stepped out, and in the cavernous quiet, the only sound was the sharp, rhythmic tuck, tuck, tuck of his shoes echoing off the sterile walls, a solitary beat in the otherwise dead air. Each step was deliberate, measured, the sound amplifying the isolation and the sense of purpose that propelled him forward toward the looming doors.
He pushed open the heavy double doors, their muted thud a final punctuation to the world he'd left behind. He closed them softly, the click of the lock barely audible, and walked into the cavernous chamber. It was his sanctuary, a place defined by its vast, mesmerizing grand fishing tank that dominated one wall, the exotic fish swimming in silent, indifferent circles. Vincenzo paused, his gaze fixed not on the water, but on a figure standing before it. A cold, calculating smirk touched his lips as he sat on a low chair, knowing who it was even before the man turned around.
***
The figure was the underworld boss Alexander's butler Grayson, a man he trusted implicitly, utterly unaware he was a pawn Vincenzo had set in motion long ago. He savoured the delicious dramatic irony of the moment recalling their "first encounter" during his close combat test for the organization. It was a masterpiece of an act: the butler, playing the part of a loyal servant mistaking him for a trespasser or assassin, had even shot at him, just enough to show his "undying" loyalty to the boss. Now, here in the silent glow of the aquarium, the charade was over, and the true game began, with the strings firmly in his hands.
With crisp, almost silent step, the butler Grayson, crossed the Persian rug, his polished shoes making no sound on the hardwood floor beneath. He approached the large, leather armchair where Vincenzo was seated, a man whose reputation for violence was whispered in every dark corner of the city. Grayson's posture was ramrod straight, a picture of starched professionalism that never wavered regardless of the company he kept. He stopped two feet from the chair, clasped his hands infront of him, and executed a shallow, precise bow.
***
"Pardon me, sir," Grayson said, his voice a low, measured tone that betrayed no emotion, "I have some urgent information regarding the underworld boss."
Vincenzo tilted his head, a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the statement. A faint, tight smile played on his lips, though it never reached his cold gaze. He didn't speak, just waited, the silence in the room thick with unspoken tension, broken only by the quiet of hum of the air filtration system. Grayson remained in his low bow, unmoving, until Vincenzo gestured with a single, sharp flick of his wrist.
"Speak," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly sound.
"The first, and in my assesment, easiest target," Grayson began, a crisp finality to his tone as he pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose with a single, precise finger. His gaze, behind the lenses, was sharp and unwavering as he outlined the plan to the man seated across from him. He adjusted his glasses once more, a subtle but repetitive gesture of his meticulous nature, before continuing. "Will be the underworld boss's younger son."
Vincenzo, a formidable figure in his own right, listened with stillness that suggested deep focus. At the mention of the son, one of his eyebrows climbed slowly toward his hairline. The room was silent for a beat before his voice, deep, even, and steeped in a chilling calm, cut through the quiet.
***
"And the reason behind this 'first easiest target'?" Vincenzo asked, the question less of a query and more a demand for absolute certainty. His eyes narrowed slightly, already calculating risks and plan.
Grayson cleared his throat, a dry, almost imperceptible sound, and leaned forward slightly to elaborate. "A rather simple explanation, truly. The young man is, unfortunately, quite reckless and predictable in his habits. He adheres to a routine with predictability of a Swiss watch. Every night, without fail, he can be found at the same five-star hotel that sits squarely in the center of the city's nightlife district. He often carries a particular item of value, and his inattention provides an opportunity." He concluded, pushing his glasses up a final time, the slight glare from the overhead lamp reflecting off the glass as he nodded once, sealing the plan.
***
Behind the scene~
On the set of fist target mystery, a hushed intensity filled the air as Vincenzo and butler Grayson rehearsed their sinister plot. "The Author is the first target," Vincenzo hissed, mockingly saying, fully immersed in the character's dark persona.
"We must ensure it looks like an accident." Just as Grayson nodded in agreement, Vincenzo took a confident step forward, completely missing the forgotten banana peel from a crew member's lunch break. His legs flew out from under him in a perfect, cartoonish arc, and he landed with a spectacular "THWACK!" that echoed through the silent studio.
From her director's chair, the Author initially snorted with surprised laugh at the sheer slapstick absurdity. But when Vincenzo, sprawled on the floor, shot her and icy, in-character glare that promised a grim demise, her laughter died instantly. He hadn't broken character for a second. "Right, right, moving on," she squeaked, a genuine shiver running down her spine. "Someone get Vincenzo a new, less... slippery mark."
To be continued...🤍