Time – 2300.
Location – In an alcove of the city, someplace in East Asia.
Mission – Assassinate.
You're invited to revel with the rich and rotten; a kind of commemoration for the elite brats. Timing is crucial, so you must be immaculate. Distract while you execute. Tonight, you are a magician.
Thin appendages ringed with extreme delicacy manipulate a piece of the stemware, lazily swirling whatever brand of beverage that it contains [ he can taste its price, high yet insipid; briefly wonders how most people here are even able to derive pleasure from this wine of emptiness ]– Such an act is merely the bastard of boredom, of impatience, done under the color of a so-called aristocratic manner just to blend in with the crowd which is composed of little known but young and powerful figures born into opulence, reminding him that he, too would have been one of them had he not gone astray from the path his parents built for him. He hasn't forgotten he was spoiled as an only child, though whether or not he was truly loved is disputable. Not that he would be shocked if they told him he was born for the sole purpose of carrying on the family's legacy and nothing more.
The cool condensation of the glass bites his fingers, so he puts it away on the table along with the blurry reminiscence– Allows his mind to be arrested for a minute or two by the constellation of important people and elegant cacophony waltzing about the large room. The building, they learned after a discreet reconnaissance, where the event is hosted provides no suitable spot for eyes that seek to kill due to its convoluted design, thus they opted for a much subtler way; an assignment which requires the spit of a ghost that doesn't haunt, otherwise known as Yoichi Ihara, who wears silence at his feet and moves as gracefully as smoke with the face of innocence that would surely draw little to no attention.
From time to time, stolen glimpses at the target serve to assure him that they are not bidding the party farewell anytime soon, in fact they are grabbing themselves a drink after another, mouth saturated with alcohol, fine dainties and sugary words to coat those whom they receive compliments from [ the cliché "Oh, I am nothing without my family and all of you, my friends." and so forth ] but they don't even seem intoxicated despite the rush of everything. He peels his eyes away from them then, unobtrusively brushing a skeletal hand over his pocket which confines the small instrument of death that will be introduced to his target when the moment is right.
But he cannot help and notice from the corner of his eye a particular soul, playing in the shadows, in the nooks of the place. An unwavering presence that tells it is just like him, a predator after the same prey. Let's deal with it later– Whatever or whoever it is.
