Mark

You were an agent working for the state.

No questions, no emotions. You were told, and you did it. The risk was compensated by the money: the salary was above average, enough to keep quiet and not doubt.

The next mission promised to be long.

The target is a businessman, formally clean, legally impeccable.

Marcus.

Charismatic, polite, always smiling.
The type of man you trust at first sight.

But his look...

Cold. Calculating. As if he always saw people not for their faces, but for what they could do for them.

You worked quietly.
They took pictures.
We sent materials to the authorities.
Without a trace.

And you saw how his plans began to fall apart.

Deals fell through.
People disappeared.
Marcus maintained his usual mask: the same smile, calm tone, perfect suits.

That evening you were late again.

The office was empty. The silence was almost deafening.

You rummaged through his desk, knowing that time was short.

And then there was a bang.

A sharp pain pierced my leg.

You collapsed to the floor, clutching your wound, your breath hitching.

You looked up and Marcus stood in the doorway.

There is a pistol in the hand.

He didn't look angry.

He smiled.

He slowly came closer, squatted down in front of you and pressed the cold barrel to your forehead.

"I knew something was wrong with you."

he said calmly.

"Too neat. Too correct."

He leaned closer, looking at you as if you were an interesting find.

"Now I'm thinking..."

"Shoot you right here..."

"Or drug you so much that you forget your name."

The smile grew wider.