The stainless steel doors of the elevator slid open with a silent hiss, revealing the cold, concrete expanse of the underworld organization's main floor. Vincenzo stepped out, each pace silent, the only sound a faint, metallic jingle from the tiny bells sewn into the hem of his stark white mask, which bore a thin, downward-curved black smile. The air in the cast underground bay was thick with the smells of gun oil and stale cigeratte smoke.
As he reached the curb of the organization's main floor, several teams of men returning from their own missions, their heavy gear clanking against the unforgiving stone floor. They moved in weary clusters, a stark contrast to his solitary, measured gait. All activity paused as eyes tracked his movement. Whispers started, circulating like a cold draft.
"Is that him?" one man muttered, wiping grime from his forehead.
"Yeah," his partner replied, a note of grudging respect in his voice. "The one who finished an S-level mission today. In just one hour."
"The boss's new human weapon," a third added, the words laced with a mix of awe and fear.
Oblivious to the chatter, Vincenzo kept walking, his two assigned men for today's so called S-level mission trotting few pace behind, already boasting to anyone who would listen.
He didn't care. He simply made his way past the groups of armed men, his focus fixed on the immense, black iron gates of the organization building. A weapon, the true instrument of his entire cruel plan, rested securely in its holster beneath his custom-tailored suit jacket. He pushed the heavy gates open, the screech of metal on metal momentarily drowning out the whispers, and stepped out into the night air.
***
Vincenzo moved with a deliberate, almost theatrical slowness, each step a calculated beat in a meticulously constructed performance. He knew the eye of the security camera, fixed on the black gate of the underworld organization's headquarters, was following his movement. His face, hidden behind a stark white mask featuring a permanent, downward-curved smile, was a calling card, a silent proclamation of identity for those watching.
He was their new human weapon, the asset recruited mere days ago, and he ensured the camera had a clear, lingering view before he finally slipped into the absolute dark of a nearby alley, a ghost disappearing into the night. This simple footage was a crucial, small investment in a cruel, sprawling plan, a calculated move to establish his whereabouts and prove his "innocence" later.
***
Inside the monitoring room...
The air hummed with the low static of a dozen screens. Two guards, Vin and Lenny, slouched in their chairs, eyes half-lidded, minds mostly on their shift's end.
"Hey, you see that?" Vin nudged Lenny, pointing to Monitor 4, the feed from the main gate.
Lenny grunted, "See what? Another newbie trying to look tough?"
"Yeah but look at the pace. Kid's practically sleepwalking," Vin said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "And the mask...a downward smile? Cheerful."
"Probably trying to make an impression. The underworld boss's new human weapon, right? Vinny or Vincenzo whatever his name is," Lenny scoffed, his gaze drifted to another screen. "Heard he's a real piece of work. Only been here two, three days and already everyone's on edge."
"Well, he's a slow walker, I'll give him that," Vin mused, watching the masked figure finally vanish into the shadows. "Made sure the camera got his good side, I guess."
Lenny leaned in, squinting at the grainy footage. "Good. The boss is big on 'accountability'. This footage will come in handy when someone eventually screws up. We got his face- or his mask, anyway- clear as day."
"Right," Vin said, leaning back. "Just logging the time. 2:15. Human weapon last seen entering the east alley. Probably just heading to take a walk. Kid's a ghost, my ass, he's got a schedule."
They both chuckled, oblivious to the fact that they had just become unwitting participants in Vincenzo's cold, meticulous game. The footage was secure, the alibi set. The real plan was already in motion.
***
He emerged from the east dark alley, a shadow coalescing into form. With a single, fluid motion, he reached up and pulled the white mask from his face, the pale plastic a stark contrast to the deepening twilight. His eyes, now devoid of all but a cold, calculating light, scanned the street.
Across the narrow lane, huddled in a dark corner, his men stood smoking. The moment they saw him, the cigerattes were hastily extinguished on the brickwork. The men in dark suits bowed low, a synchronous ripple of respect and fear, before the lead man stepped forward and opened the rear car door for him.
Vincenzo slid into the cool leather interior. The car, an inkly black sedan, smelled of expensive unholstery and a faint, metallic tang. He didn't look at his men as the door clicked shut, only stared out the window, the city lights steaking past. The driver started the car, pulling smoothly into the flow of traffic.
***
His voice, when it came, was not a shout but a chilling, measured question directed at the driver, as if confirming a simple dinner reservation rather than a potential assassination. "The young son of the underworld boss...he is still in the Center Hotel, is he not?"
"Yes, Master. On the top floor," the driver responded, his voice tight.
A long, silent moment streched in the car. A murderous glint had found a home in Vincenzo's eyes, an intense, focused light in the gloom. His very self seemed to shift, his carefully constructed calm cracking as his psycho self returned, raw and craving blood. He saw the body fall again in his mind, the silent thud on the pavement, the finality of the devoid gaze, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his lips. The hunt was not over yet.
***
Vincenzo's funny moments~
Even the most meticulous killer has an off day. Take him, for instance, a man whose work was defined by surgical precision. One rainy Tuesday, while meticulously polishing his prized collection of antique daggers, he accidentally snagged his sweater on a particularly sharp blade, causing a tiny, inconvenient run.
He spent the next twenty minutes in a state of exasperated fury, not at the prospect of being caught or the moral implications of his life, but because he couldn't find the right color yarn to mend his favourite cashmere. The sheer domestic absurdity of a cold-blooded murderer obsessing over a minor clothing repair was, in its own dark way, hilarious.