Prologue
You’ve probably heard the saying that when a killer kills, he usually doesn’t blink. Hmm...
Well, that may be true. Since he started in this profession, he has never blinked while doing a job. Maybe it’s because this job requires intense concentration, especially when the target (a bad target) can still move.
We don’t kill just anyone. Assassins with bosses like ours are only ordered to kill bad guys.
But what is black, what is white, what is good and what is bad?
Sometimes he wanted to ask his mother - the adoptive mother who raised him, someone he deeply respected and his boss - as if to say, “Is this Shawwood Forest or something? Or do you think you’re Robin Hood, playing the hero, taking justice into your own hands, ridding the world of people labeled as evil?”
He had thought about asking, but had never said it out loud.
And as he thought, every muscle in his right arm worked with all its strength, lifting himself up smoothly as if he had done this a hundred or even a thousand times. His eyes, which rarely blinked, narrowed halfway to fixate on the center.
Don’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Turn off your beating heart and stop paying attention to everything. Even if your hands are sweating, sweat is forming on your temples, and the pleas for mercy are piercing your ears, echoing deep within you. Still, you must not hesitate or blink even for a second. Just a moment.
Just watch everything in slow motion. Carefully aim the muzzle of the silenced Clock 17 at the target.
One shot... as accurate as possible. It’s a show of compassion for the dead and finishes the job quickly.
“It’s over.”
He lowered the gun and blinked once at the lifeless body. Thick blood began to drip and the familiar metallic smell filled his nose, but he never quite got used to it.
The once living being lay still, muscles still slightly twitching, eyes wide open, refusing to close. He sighed, lifting his head to look up at the night sky, where the stars shone beautifully, though he was in no mood to admire them.
“Bison, what’s wrong with you? It took you too long to aim before you shot”
Bison glanced at the person who had asked him: his fellow assassin. They had worked as a team for many years. He shook his head slightly in response before speaking. The gun in his hand was put away while he was talking.
“Nothing! I’m sick of this shitty life. When can we stop being killers, Fadel? I don’t want to do this anymore.” Bison said.
After putting his gun away, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, using it to relax his body after the adrenaline rush. His partner, Fadel, whom his mother told him to view as an older brother, didn’t respond. He just focused intently on destroying evidence... That’s his job, anyway.
“Are you burned?” Fadel asked.
“I don’t know. I just don’t want to do it anymore.” Bison answered.
“Mom’s not going to let you give up that easily.”
“I know. Do you want a cigarette?”
“Sure, but let me finish here first”
Bison took another drag, watching his older brother’s back as he did his share of the work. There was no need to hover over Fadel; he knew Fadel would do everything right, as always. And besides, being picky wasn’t his style.
“Next time, let me kill the animal and then clean it up. And if you’re exhausted, maybe you should see a therapist.”
But that prickly personality seemed to belong to Fadel. Handsome but always grim-faced, Fadel finished with the body, wrapping it meticulously before loading it into the back of an old car. In his thin black trousers, he strode over and held out his hand for a cigarette.
“So you’re going to tell the therapist, ‘I’m tired of killing people; I’ve killed too many already? Like that?’”
“Can you try to say something a little more intelligent?”
“Yes, sir. If I can’t open up to a therapist, I’m not going. It’s a waste of time.”
Fadel stared at his younger brother. He wasn’t sure if it was because they had different mothers and fathers, but their personalities couldn’t be more opposite. Bison liked to ramble, sometimes even chattering annoyingly before facing a target. Fadel, on the other hand, kept his words to himself. Talking, to him, was a waste of breath, an unnecessary waste of energy.
“Are you leaving together?”
“No, my part is already done. The rest is yours.”
“So where are you going?”
“Anywhere my heart can rest.”
“Mmm...”
“You should take a break too, Fadel. Your life doesn’t have to be so routine”.
Fadel was unfazed by the criticism. He stood tall and took another drag. Bison finished his cigarette, then dropped it to the ground and put it out with his shoe.
“I’m leaving, big brother.”
“Okay. See you at home.”
Taking that as permission, Bison turned around and walked away with his dreams.
He dreamed of being free one day, of not having to kill, of not having to hide. Oh, and he almost forgot: he wanted a lover and a cat. That was his dream.
