Chapter One
In an abandoned building swallowed entirely by darkness, the sound of footsteps was the only thing audible, while corpses and blood lay strewn everywhere in chaotic disarray. Amid that grisly scene stood a young man with gray hair and silver eyes, wearing transparent glasses.
He glanced right and left, then fired his shot, the bullet tearing through his enemy's skull. The body collapsed. Immediately a number of men materialized around the youth, attacking him with their weapons.
The thud of bodies hitting the ground sounded one after another. He slit their throats and severed all their heads with his dagger.
The young man knelt, took hold of one of his victims' heads, and looked at it for a long moment before speaking in a deep voice: "It's a pity you won't know the name of your killer. Anyway—my name is Cain. Cain, nothing else."
Cain tossed the severed head away; it rolled and left a trail of blood. He continued to prowl the building searching for new victims until he heard the wail of police sirens. He turned his gaze and saw a large window.
Cain leapt through it, dropping from the twentieth floor to the ground.
The instant his feet touched earth he began to run aimlessly, then suddenly stopped without warning; he looked to his left and found an entire gang waiting for him — their numbers exceeded a hundred men, and all of them bore dangerous weapons.
"Welcome, young assassin. We've been waiting for you for a long time," the gang leader at their head smiled.
Cain removed his glasses and wiped the blood from them before putting them back on.
He lunged into that massive throng, slicing their heads off one by one. They did not even have a chance to assault him en masse, for they were dead before they could act.
He picked up the severed heads and hurled them with tremendous force at the enemies; the heads flew like arrows, piercing their chests.
He kept killing and spilling blood until everyone lay dead.
Amid a sea of blood, fallen corpses, and disfigured faces, Cain stood in the center, casting a sidelong, contemptuous glance at the dead men.
"I suppose there's no need to tell those I've killed my name; after all, no one remembers the names of killers."
Cain walked at an even pace, then pulled out his phone and brought it to his ear. "Hello, Director. I have already completed the mission."
"You may go home now."
Cain walked with measured steps toward his small house, opened the door, and went straight to his bed to lie down.
He stared toward the window for a long while before drawing his two daggers — one red, the other blue.
He began to hear the loud, annoying sirens of police cars. They had been driving intensive daily patrols for a long time, and Cain knew this, though he did not care.
He touched his pockets and found not what he sought: money.
"That damned director hasn't paid me for three consecutive jobs. I'll kill him in his own house if he doesn't pay me," Cain snarled in anger.
Money was desperately needed that night, necessary more than ever; he did not even have enough for dinner.
He rose from the bed and left his small home, trying to shake off the oppressive mood. After wandering through the city streets that night had swallowed, an idea crept into Cain's mind: call his director.
He took out his phone and pressed his director's number. "Hello, old man. It seems you haven't slept yet — that's really something."
"Why are you calling me at this hour, you scum?" the director growled.
Cain fell silent for a few seconds, then spoke in a loud, grating voice: "Maybe I missed you. Give me my money, you filthy bastard, or I'll kill you while you're with your wife and children."
They sank into a long silence after Cain's threat, until the director finally spoke with words rife with anger: "Come then. Do you think advancing age has made me weak? I'll kill you the way you want — just come. I'm waiting."
The director hung up while Cain stared at his phone with a deep frown; he pressed it hard until the device shattered into pieces.
"Are you mocking me, you senile fool? You didn't pay me my money and on top of that you threaten me with murder — I'll make you beg."
The truth was Cain had been the one to start threatening with murder, but he fixated on his director's reaction and forgot his own.
He set off at full speed toward his director's house. He reached his destination, touched the door handle to enter, then stopped abruptly.
"Wait — maybe his wife and daughters are home. He'll really kill me if I walk in on them."
It was fortunate that thought occurred to him; Cain was not afraid of the director killing him if he intruded on his wife and daughters — what terrified him was the prospect of being fired if he did.
He stepped many paces back, planted his feet firmly, then hurled himself forward and entered through a window.
"Is that the sound of glass breaking? Has that bastard really come for me?"
The director rose in panic, running to his family to find his wife asleep among their young daughters.
He sighed with great relief but continued searching for Cain, bewildered as to where he might go.
He wanted to go check other places but feared Cain would appear in the living room where his family was.
While he sought a way to solve the problem, his body suddenly trembled with a fierce intent to kill; he realized Cain was above, waiting.
The director climbed upstairs very quickly with silent steps so as not to wake his wife.
He reached the upper floor to find Cain before him — only a few steps between them.
"Welcome, flimsy director. It seems you were waiting for me with bated breath."
"If you do anything stupid that wakes my family I'll kill you, Cain."
The director unleashed a crushing murderous intent; the room filled with a sudden, frigid cold.
"Even after his retirement and all these years, he still possesses that presence and terrifying power. It's truly good that you are my director," Cain murmured as the corners of his mouth trembled.
Cain raised his hands and waved them with a broad smile dyeing his face. "I'm joking — joking, man. Don't take things seriously. I came just to get my money."
The director narrowed his eyes, veins bulging. "What about that overwhelming killing intent, and your breaking into my house like that — after all this you expect me not to kill you?"
"The truth is I'm bankrupt now. I have no food, nothing — just a roof to sleep under."
The two fell into a long silence until the director finally spoke: "And what do you expect me to do for you now?"
Cain smiled, trying to hide the great anger he felt toward the director. "I want my money. After what I told you, I think you know I need it more than ever."
The director's eyes narrowed until they nearly closed while Cain awaited his response.
"I will not give you the money — or to be more precise, I cannot give you the money."
Cain froze like a stone statue; his lips ceased moving as he stared at his director.
The moment the director finished speaking, veins stood out on Cain's face as if a river of rage had surfaced.
"Are you aware of what you're saying now, or has age affected you?" Cain snarled.
The director stepped forward swiftly and stood before Cain, pressed his shoulder hard, grabbed his shirt, and hurled him out of the house, smashing through the wall. Cain flew high through the air.
He fell into a public park. Cain did not get up; he lay motionless in his fall until he removed his glasses, which had indeed broken.
"If you don't pay me my money peacefully I'll make you pay it in the way I'm best at."
Cain moved, trying to reach his director's house as fast as possible — he truly wanted to kill him.
A murderous urge surged from him to such an extent that it reached the director.
He pierced through houses and buildings like a bullet, halted at some point, then leapt high.
Cain looked toward his director, who stood like an idol at the top of a building.
"He's still as fast as in his youth; he could kill me if I underestimate him," Cain muttered.
The director took out a long rope and coiled it around his arm, displaying a savage smile.
"Do you remember this rope, Cain? I'm sure some memories have come back to you."
The rope shot out and wrapped around Cain's leg; the director pulled with all his strength.
As he reached the director, the director strangled him and hauled him upward. Cain spoke in a strangled voice: "Are you going to kill your favorite operative, the one you rely on for everything? That would be a loss for the work."
The director frowned, narrowing his eyes: "Unfortunately, I won't lose anything if I kill you."
The two sank into a long silence.
"After all, the work is over and everything has been suspended."
His voice shrank in his throat; he stopped breathing for a few seconds as the director looked at him without a defined expression, then opened his hand and let Cain drop to the ground.
Neither could speak a single word. The director stared at Cain intently.
"Now you may leave — there is no money for me to give you. You can look for another job or join assassination organizations, for in the end our work was but a forgotten part-time job."
"Shut up, you filthy old man. You know better than anyone that I don't want to work anywhere but for you. I hate organizations; I hate serving those who hold authority and control everything," Cain shouted with fury.
The two exchanged prolonged glances until the director raised his hand and pointed a finger at Cain: "These feelings, sensations, and desires belong to you alone; they have nothing to do with others, not even with me."
"I don't care about your feelings at all. You can find a solution for yourself."
The director disappeared immediately after his words; Cain could never sense him again.
After that desperate decision Cain had heard, he had to find some solution — but he wasn't that kind of man.
In the end he was zealous about one decision: not to work for organizations. His work was not like theirs; the director's orders had been closer to personal missions than to tasks aimed at preserving hidden justice.
Cain stood and smiled bitterly, lifting his gaze upward until a not-distant memory formed before him.
"Police — the sound of their cars as they go out each day on intensive patrols."
His smile cracked between his ribs. He leapt between buildings until he reached his home.
He had no food, no money, and his work had vanished, leaving behind a bitter void.
"Is this what it feels like to be unemployed? It's a truly awful feeling," Cain muttered.
Amid that oppressive atmosphere Cain heard the knock at the door. Who would come to him at such an hour, by the Creator of Hell?
He rose quickly and opened it to find a middle-aged man whose face bore many wrinkles and the signs of sleeplessness.
Cain gave him no particular expression while the man smiled — this annoyed Cain greatly.
"Hello. I have a message for you."
"You and your message can die."
He opened his hand; his fingers rose to the man's throat like shadows sliding across the wall.
He squeezed the man's neck with such force that breathing became difficult and then impossible; the man tried to speak but uttered incomprehensible words.
Moments later the man died, strangled and tormented.