Chapter 1: The contract
In the shifting shadows of the urban night, where the spectral gleams of automobile and motorcycle headlights danced in stark contrast with the vibrant, animated illuminations of the district, unfolded a realm dedicated to nocturnal pleasures, a labyrinth of temptations where lost souls sought oblivion. Women, scarcely veiled or half-nude, prowled the alleys like predators in search of vulnerable prey, ready to devour them in the abysses of lust. Some, a pipe in hand, their plunging necklines exposing their bosoms without shame, appeared to stalk the slightest potential client with feigned avidity, masking the weariness of their existences beneath a veneer of seduction. Men, tattooed for some, inebriated for others, or clad in luxurious suits tailored to perfection, clustered there to partake in the same unspeakable sins. This place, known to all as Freaky Gill, was a den where the law seemed to abdicate all authority.
Renowned for its trafficking in prostitution and illicit gambling, it operated with utter impunity, as if an ancient curse had designated this spot as the crucible of all imaginable vices: rapes, human trafficking, prostitution, murders, black markets, clandestine bets, and, of course, commissioned assassinations. Those who haunted this accursed quarter were no saints; they were the shadows of a fallen humanity, puppets pulled by the invisible strings of desire and corruption.
Upon the roadway paved with damp slabs, stained with traces of dried blood, crushed cigarette butts, and all manner of refuse that exhaled a pungent odor of decay, a man advanced with disconcerting serenity, as if the chaotic environment surrounding him were but a fleeting illusion, a veil woven by occult forces. He seemed invisible, a specter gliding amid the living without drawing a single glance, as if his very existence eluded common perception.
This man bore an austere elegance, a presence that imposed silence more effectively than any imperial decree. His fair skin, almost pale, accentuated the angular and fine features of his face, granting him an air both distinguished and unsettling, like that of a noble emerged from an ancient painting, haunted by unspeakable secrets. His black hair, impeccably slicked back, cleared his high forehead, reinforcing this impression of absolute mastery, as if nothing in the world could defy his will. His dark eyes, piercing yet weary, scrutinized the surroundings with cold lucidity, revealing a calculating intelligence and an assumed emotional distance, a gaze that dissected souls like a sharpened scalpel.
His attire, a somber suit of irreproachable cut enhanced by a tie in discreet red tones, evoked a pronounced taste for rigor and silent power, while the aura he exuded recalled that of a dangerous man without ostentation—someone who needed not raise his voice to inspire fear. In his hand, a black briefcase, simple and without a lock, as if its contents required no visible protection, for the true safeguard resided in the shadow of its owner.
He progressed thus for a few minutes, before halting abruptly before a bar of particular elegance, an edifice that stood like a profane sanctuary at the heart of the chaos.
As he took the path of light gray slabs leading to the entrance door, two guards watched over the threshold, their fierce gazes and imposing builds, with bulging muscles straining the fabric of their jackets, sufficient to make anyone recoil. But not the mysterious man.
The two sentinels attempted to intercept him by drawing closer to the door, forming a human wall that expressed without ambiguity his prohibition from entering.
He observed them with a vacant, calm, and condescending gaze, one that seemed to relegate them to the rank of mere ephemeral obstacles.
He relaxed his shoulders and exhaled a weary sigh.
"Gentlemen! Pray let me pass! My time is most precious, you see."
His voice was fluid, detached from any emotion, like a murmur issuing from another world.
Yet, the guards remained impassive, rooted in their position like statues forged in iron.
A laugh escaped the man, as if the situation amused him in a strange manner, an echo of mockery resonating in the obscure recesses of his soul.
"I see! I respect your devotion! I hold no grudge against you!"
He stood with arms crossed, his small black briefcase wedged between them. He tapped his foot lightly and swept the environs with his dark eyes, then leaned toward the ground.
As if hesitating to perform an irrevocable act, he restrained himself and drew his telephone from his pocket, spreading his arms to show the guards he plotted nothing suspicious.
"Easy now, I am merely retrieving my phone."
The guards, however, remained impassive.
"Are you automatons or what? Pfft!"
He dialed a number on his device and held it to his ear. It vibrated for several seconds, attempting to reach the interlocutor on the other end of the line.
In the interim, he cast a bored glance upon his briefcase.
Then the call connected.
"Yes! Hello!"
"Mr. Gabriel! I am before your bar, but your men prevent me from entering! You know, my time is precious..."
"Mr. Anathel!!! I am profoundly sorry to have made you wait thus! Pray excuse me!! I shall reprimand my guards severely!!"
He observed the two sentinels with an almost mocking air before responding.
"You need not blame them for that! They merely do what they are paid for! I respect them for it! So, hasten to resolve this issue before I lose patience."
"Yes! At once! Worry not."
He hung up and addressed a benevolent smile to the guards.
Scarcely a few minutes elapsed before the panes of the entrance door, which sparkled with an elegant yellow tint reflecting the inner light of the bar, revealed a dark silhouette approaching in haste.
Then it opened abruptly, lightly jostling the two guards.
He who had opened the door was a businessman in appearance only. His overly ample suit, wrinkled at the shoulders, made him resemble a child in disguise. His crooked tie and clammy hands betrayed constant nervousness. His pale face, hollowed by fatigue, was marked by deep circles, and his shifty eyes seemed to dread every glance. He started at the slightest noise, his voice low and trembling, as if fearing to be overheard. One could surmise he had dabbled in shady dealings out of weakness rather than ambition. Now, he was naught but a pathetic man, crushed by the fear that his secrets might be unveiled.
"Mr. Anathel! Delighted to see you!"
He said in his frightened voice.
"Mr. Gabriel! Pleased to make your acquaintance!" replied Anathel in a friendly tone.
"Come in! Pray! We shall discuss all that is necessary inside."
Anathel shook his head slightly with a false smile, yet so realistic.
He advanced toward the entrance until one of the guards placed a hand on his shoulder and requested to search him.
This gesture irritated Anathel, whose smile, though identical, suddenly appeared infused with profound annoyance.
Gabriel, the bar's manager, flew into a rage against the bodyguard who had dared this inappropriate gesture toward Anathel.
"How dare you!! Release him if you do not wish to die! Fool!!"
Under his boss's reprimands, he could only relinquish Anathel's shoulder, who proceeded with the same calm assurance, dusting the spot where the guard had touched him.
"Pray excuse me, my dear Anathel, for my employee's inappropriate gesture!"
"It is nothing! You need fret no longer."
The bar door opened with a muffled murmur, immediately stifling the street noises and replacing them with a subdued, almost intimate atmosphere. Inside, the amber light from wall sconces reflected off the dark wood of the walls, polished by years, conferring upon the place a discreet nobility. The waxed parquet creaked faintly underfoot, as if refusing to disturb the elegant tranquility reigning within these walls.
Behind the counter, a long bar of massive oak extended with quiet dignity, surmounted by a row of bottles with refined shapes, aligned like jewels beneath backlit shelves. The cut glasses captured the light, fragmenting it into golden shards that danced upon the marble countertop. The air was imbued with a subtle fragrance blending leather, aged spirits, and a hint of spices—a warm scent that invited lingering.
Deep armchairs, upholstered in velvet of sober hues, were arranged with care around small round tables. One settled into them naturally, as if the furniture itself beckoned, promising hushed conversations and murmured confidences. In a corner, a pianist scattered a few slow, elegant notes, his music melding with the murmur of voices and the discreet clink of glasses.
The bar was not merely a place for drink: it was a refuge, a timeless sanctuary where glances crossed with restraint, where every gesture seemed measured, almost ceremonial. Here, elegance imposed itself not with ostentation; it revealed itself in the details, in the mastered silence, and in that delicious impression of being, for a moment, elsewhere.
"This way, Mr. Anathel, we shall speak in private!"
"I follow you then, my dear Gabriel!"
He advanced as if, for not a single instant, captivated by the beauty and the ingenious, elegant decoration; he merely walked straight ahead, his smile ever so contrived.
They ascended to the upper floor of the building, where Gabriel's office resided.
The private room resembled a sober and functional office, designed above all for calm and discretion. The walls, in a dark shade, lent the chamber a serious atmosphere without oppression. A bookcase occupied one wall, filled with a few books and orderly files.
A massive wooden desk stood at the center, wide but devoid of useless ornaments. A lamp placed in one corner diffused a soft light, illuminating a few papers and an open notebook. Behind it, a comfortable chair allowed prolonged sitting without fatigue.
The room was silent, isolated from the rest of the building. Nothing drew the eye unnecessarily: everything seemed in its place. It was a simple yet effective space, crafted for private discourse, reflection, or decisions made away from prying eyes.
"Pray, have a seat..." said Gabriel, ever as nervous.
Anathel had not waited for Gabriel to request anything before seating himself; as soon as he began, he was already installed upon an elegant and refined black leather sofa, where he crossed his legs, allowing his black briefcase to blend into the furniture's hide.
Gabriel sat opposite him on a sofa of the same texture and color, separated only by a transparent blue glass table upon which rested a glass of whiskey with an ice cube within and a half-empty bottle of luxurious whiskey.
"So!! As agreed in the contract..."
Anathel halted him by raising a hand between himself and his interlocutor.
He took a nearby glass and filled it halfway with the luxurious libation upon the table.
With a simple gesture, he brought it to his lips and sipped a small draught before setting it down and speaking.
"Mr. Gabriel, you contacted LOVE for an assassination contract; no need to repeat it. Moreover, you have wagered a considerable sum for this mission."
With a nervous smile, he displayed evident pride in his financial capabilities.
"That is correct! I truly wish to see this person dead! That is why I invested so much in this contract, to summon the best assassin from LOVE!..."
Once more, he interrupted him.
"You are mistaken! I am not the best assassin in LOVE. If one were to establish a ranking, I would be second or third... But never first! Not before that monster!"
Gabriel's expression darkened.
"Then you have deceived me! I invested much to summon the BEST!!"
"I am sorry, but our top agent is already on a mission... A mission dispatched directly by our superiors. I doubt you possess sufficient influence to oppose them."
Gabriel's face became docile again upon understanding.
"I see! Pray excuse my lack of discernment. Besides, they did not send me a second-rate assassin! That is already good! Thank you for coming!"
"It is nothing... Let us now discuss the terms of the contract! Whom exactly do you wish killed?"
He drew a photograph from his jacket pocket and extended it to Anathel.
Upon the photo appeared a striking middle-aged man, with a perfectly trimmed beard, impeccably groomed black hair, and a brown pinstriped jacket.
"Who is this person?"
"It is Denver Daniel, one of my direct competitors! For some time now, he cannot help but erode my revenues by creating new bar chains or associating with others to buy their shares, thus reducing my costs and profit margin!!"
Scratching his chin, Anathel seemed deeply engaged in Gabriel's explanations.
"I see, I know it is not easy. So, you want me to kill him, that is all?"
There was a smile full of mischief in his eyes.
"Yes! I want you to destroy his empire!! I want to see him fall, I want to see his head roll!!"
"His head roll, eh?... My goodness."
"Yes! I want him to suffer and feel despair!"
"I see!"
He turned toward his briefcase and cleared the objects upon the bluish glass table.
"What is that?"
Anathel bore a childlike smile, almost genuine. And he opened his briefcase with a prompt and calm gesture.
Within lay a sharp and slender weapon: a particular knife, of unique form.
The knife was of intermediate length, long enough to strike with precision, short enough to vanish in a gesture. Its narrow blade, slightly curved, seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, as if forged never to catch the eye. The metal bore a dark tint, patinated by use, and its razor edge promised a swift and silent death. The handle, sheathed in worn black leather, fitted the palm perfectly, offering a firm grip even beneath sweat or blood. The weapon sought not to impress: it inspired fear through its sobriety, for everything in it had been designed to kill without noise and without hesitation.
It was enveloped in black foam that perfectly contoured the shape of the bladed weapon nestled within.
"So! Mr. Gabriel! What think you of this weapon? It is capable of slicing through the flesh and bones of any living being. Do you believe it will decapitate your enemy well?"
Gabriel observed the blade that seemed to crave only blood. He took it in hand to examine its sharpness himself. Even touching the back of the blade risked a cut; it was unreal.
"Yes! It is perfect!" He said, all excited and joyous at the thought of imagining what would befall his enemy.
Anathel reclaimed the blade and displayed an angelic smile, lightly shaking his slicked-back black hair.
"Very well! Then I hope to perform an impeccable job."
He rose and adjusted his garments. Gabriel did likewise, bowing before him with great respect and profound gratitude.
"Thank you very much! I already sense the deed accomplished!"
Anathel merely nodded in response to all of Gabriel's assertions.
Then, a dry sound vibrated in the air: the noise of a blade cleaving the atmosphere without obstacle in its path. Yet, upon the floor, something heavy was heard collapsing.
Anathel had decapitated Gabriel with a swift stroke. The strangest part was that no drop of blood flowed; it was as if he had severed the head of a mannequin. With the smile and expression frozen upon Gabriel's head, as if he knew not yet that he was already dead.
His headless body followed and slumped to the ground. No trace of blood appeared, and none ever would.
"Four million dollars, that is the sum you proposed. Yet, Denver had offered ten before you! I wondered if you would have negotiated the price higher! But I did not wish to force you..."
He bent down, retrieved his briefcase from the table to store his weapon, then took a final sip of whiskey.
"Besides, I cannot hold it against you: you were on the brink of bankruptcy. But still..."
He turned away and faced the door before casting one last glance at Gabriel's remains.
He simply snapped his fingers, and the corpse transformed into a blood-red card depicting the manner of his death.
Upon it was inscribed 2692, expressing the number of people he had already slain.