The Handler

Warning: This chapter contains acts of violence.

~Alexie Ivanov~

The engine of my car roared along the highway as I made my way towards the eastern end of the city. Signs passed by as I navigated junctions towards my destination—an area well-known for its dock connecting the coast to Eastern Asian countries, notorious for the influx of illegal immigrants. I vividly recall that fifteen years ago, this passage brought me to this country. While it's no longer as squalid as it was back then, the unmistakable stench lingers, a persistent reminder of the past.

Technology has propelled human evolution to a juncture where virtually everything is accessible at the touch of a button. Yet, in the obscure corners of the world, shrouded in mystery for many, certain things remain the exclusive domain of those willing to get their hands dirty. Today, I found myself in need of such unsavory services from a man known in these parts as the Handler.

In the realm where humans dwell, there exists both light and dark. The light is governed by buffoons adorned in ties and smiles, manipulating others for their personal gain. Meanwhile, the dark is ruled by savages who eagerly prey on those thrust into its depths, satisfying their own desires. Many wield influence in the shadows, but only one is dedicated to scrubbing away the filth they leave behind. In his world, he is the one who purges the darkness, allowing the light to persist. What an exaggeration, I had initially thought, when I heard him spout such notions.

However, the influence, or rather the monopoly, wielded by the Handler in the underworld was indisputable. Anyone could aspire to become a mafioso, a thug, a thief, or even a politician, but entry into the realm of "cleansing the world" was restricted solely by the Handler and his stringent control. I chuckled at the notion of a "stringent control." It wasn't a control; it was an unbridled, psychotic rage that instilled fear in everyone around him. There was a time when people distanced themselves from him and his sordid activities.

The first time I encountered him, only three thoughts crossed my mind: why wasn't he named something like the Undertaker, he's unhinged, and I despise him. It was this very disdain of mine that, inexplicably, led the masochistic madman to fall in love with me. A sigh escaped my lips as a wave of disgust churned in my stomach.

The melancholy strains of Lacrimosa filled the confines of my car as I reflected on the information I had hacked the previous night from the assassin's tableau. It revealed that some figure had commissioned a hefty $50 million bounty for Mr. Patel. Typically, one would either fulfill the job or counter with a higher bounty for the originator's head. I was well aware of the individual behind the bounty, but my desire for control demanded a meticulous approach. In the intricate power dynamics at play, a shifting rift of bounties often unfolded, leaving the weakest and most unfortunate target to meet their demise. In my case, that unlucky soul could be Mr. Patel—he was, after all, a more accessible target than the one who placed the bounty.

I parked my car, silencing the music, and took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the impending conversation with the Handler. While I could easily enlist the services of any ordinary thug, when your target is a mafia boss, you seek out the most formidable individual for the job—the Handler. Steeling myself, I gazed at the sign swaying in the wind, boldly proclaiming "Bath."

Meeting the Handler entailed a specific protocol. The enigmatic figure could only be located within a Japanese-style bathhouse named Seto. Access to this establishment required a unique code, and the appointed individual would be guided to the bathhouse room that the Handler was using for the day.

Pushing the sliding doors open, I was enveloped by the crisp fragrance of lavender and purple wisteria, evidently the Handler's favorite scent—a surefire confirmation that he was currently present in his establishment. A reassuring sign, I mused, as I strolled in. Retrieving my cell phone, I entered a cryptic pin and presented the message to the front desk. With a nod of acknowledgment, the attendant summoned a boy to guide me to the back rooms.

The boy, barely thirteen, displayed a peculiar preference of the man I was about to meet. He bowed deeply, then knelt to present me with indoor slippers. Seating myself at the threshold, I meticulously removed my shoes, placing them in the shoe box with precise alignment before slipping into the provided slippers. The Japanese boy guided me to the bath room before bowed once more before leaving me to my own devices. Inhaling another breath of fresh air to maintain composure, I ventured into the vacant changing area.

Walking to the fourth aisle in the middle row, I bent down to inspect his unmistakable red Haori at the second bottom-most basket—a habitual sign that he was indeed present. Opting for a basket directly opposite his, I began the meticulous process of disrobing. I peeled off my suit jacket, unbuttoning my shirt to reveal the silver of my abs. With deliberate care, I removed the shirt, folding it to perfection to avoid any creases. Next, I unbuckled my belt, rolling it along the sides of my palms before placing it in the basket, followed by the removal of my wristwatch. My hand instinctively moved to my back, where I extracted my gun holster with caution, ensuring the safety was engaged.

Continuing the process, I shed my slacks, folding them with precision. My thumbs hooked the corners of my boxers as I slid them off, placing them alongside the other garments. Grabbing a bath towel, I covered my lower half. The muscles in my back clenched, and I tightened my jaw, a subtle frown forming on the bridge of my brows.

"Deep breaths, Alex," I reminded myself, the internal mantra playing in my mind as I approached the sliding doors separating the areas leading to the main bathing area. Every cell in my body seemed to scream a unanimous sentiment—what an unfortunate hour to encounter this man. No, scratch that, every hour with this man felt like an ill-fated twist of fate.

The once-tiled floor, adorned in the classic blue and white pattern, was now painted entirely in red. "Uggh, now some unlucky fool has to clean that," my initial thought surfaced as my gaze shifted to the deranged man standing before me.

No one knew the real name of the Handler, only that he was the product of a union between a soldier and a Japanese Geisha, the latter abandoning her mistake upon returning home. Aside from this fragment of information, his origins remained shrouded in mystery. One thing was certain, though—he was undeniably unhinged. A masochistic sociopath with a simple yet chilling motto:

"Do unto others ten times worse than they do unto us."

His logic seemed entirely flawed to me. How could he do ten times worse when he typically dispatched his poor victims by the third or fifth time? In fact, why stop at ten? Why not extend the torment for a lifetime—stab a scar, let it heal, allow them to feel a false sense of security, and then strike again out of nowhere? Continue this cycle until they no longer trust their own shadow, and at some point, they would willingly offer their soul on a platter. When I voiced this perspective, he simply gave me a look, pointed at me, then gestured to his own head, erupting into laughter like a maniac, proclaiming, "I was the crazy one." What an absurd man.

What was even more absurd was that this scumbag had gone ahead and killed a mafia boss—the very person whose bounty I came here to discuss with him. The gruesome scene unfolded before me, with the crazed man bathed in her blood and parts of her body scattered around. His eyes, glassy in ecstasy, slowly shifted down from the high to fixate on me. A smirk adorned his face, showcasing an entire set of bloody teeth—the same bloody imprint I could discern on the dismembered body.

Bending down, he picked up Lady Larorret's head, puppeting her jaw to make it appear as if she was talking. "I completed what you wished of me, Al," he declared with a disturbing nonchalance.

Now, my expression contorted into a frown of disgust. The ostentatious display of bloodshed was far from my preference—unclean, imperfect, and thoroughly irksome. It reminded me of being at a carnival, a child receiving cotton candy after incessant begging from his parents. The Handler's smirk transformed into a full grin as his laughter reverberated through the enclosed space of the bathhouse. I clenched my jaw, resentful not only for having to endure this nauseating atmosphere with this imbecile but also for having to endure his hysterics.

As if sensing my discomfort, he proceeded to pluck out the eyes of the woman, his fingernails digging into her ripe flesh, scooping out the meat and ripping it from the eye socket. Observing my reaction, he lowered the gruesome piece toward his mouth.

"Dolboyob," I hissed before striding past him, taking care not to let my feet touch the tainted floor. I headed to the wash area, cleansing myself of the gruesome scene with soap before immersing my naked body into the hot water tub. As I bathed, the man observed me with curiosity, scrutinizing each of my moves. I was well aware that one wrong move could set him off, and he would be after me.

One consistent observation about the Handler was that if he liked something about you, it was wise to maintain that persona in subsequent encounters. Apparently, he relished my disapproval, and if that was what he wanted, that was the least I could provide—especially considering he had just saved me a $100 million bounty. Addressing him in my cold Russian accent, I remarked, "Clean up your filth before you come in."

As if commanded, he released the head from his palms, allowing it to roll to the side, leaving a trail of blood—a task that added to the cleaning responsibilities. His smirk disappeared from his face, replaced by a clap of hands that summoned the boy from earlier along with cleaning supplies. The boy bowed before his employer and, without a word, commenced the task of cleaning the blood-soaked floor. Some of my discomfort alleviated, but the realization lingered that I still had to share oxygen with this detestable individual.

After washing off, he stepped into the bath, and silence enveloped the room as we observed the boy efficiently completing his task. In a matter of minutes, the stains were cleaned off, and with a bow of his head, he left us in privacy. "Good work," I remarked, breaking the silence. "Where did you find him?"

"Her," he corrected, "I found her in a trash storage along with the dead body of her mother—or at least, whatever was left of the body after five nights."

"Hmmm..." I responded, understanding the implication. The dump area, designated for waste management in the city, had inadvertently become a breeding ground for illegal activities, particularly prostitution. When you allow dirt to prosper freely, even the most desperate individuals could find a semblance of joy for a meager penny. This resulted in a cycle where one group left happy, discarding all their unhappiness onto another group who never had the chance to break free from the web. For that girl, it was a choice between working in the same deplorable conditions or working for a sociopathic cleanser. I believed the latter was the better option.

Returning to the point, I stated, "You killed her without a bounty. I could cause problems for you."

On rare occasions, he was serious, and for some reason, today was one of those days. "Unfortunately, I didn't kill her for your sake," he admitted, the seriousness fleeting as a stupid smirk framed his face. "But I still love you, Al~chan," he declared, forming a heart sign with his thumb and index finger. My veins felt ready to pop, but regardless, it seemed my business here was done. Without a word, I got up and walked straight out.

A startled voice called me, chasing after me. His chirpy tone annoyed every neuron in my brain.

As I dressed, a notification grabbed my attention. Pulling out my cell, I opened the home security system and clicked on the camera feed. The image that appeared was so adorable it brought a smile to my lips.

Nari hopped around the house like a little rabbit, her curious gaze taking in the new environment. Her fingers trailed every inch and bit of things she found interesting, looking both wary and preoccupied.

"Aww... I've never seen you smile so genuinely... I'm jealous... who is she, your lover... aww, I'm jealous though." My eyes widened. In my own dreamland, I committed the starkest mistake one could make around someone like the Handler; I revealed a potential weakness. "Isn't she Dr. Patel's daughter? You're taking care of her. Should I just kill her? What was her name again? Oh yeah, Nar—"

I snapped. Before he could utter my angel's name from his filthy mouth, my palm clamped over his face, cutting him off mid-sentence. So what if he knew my weakness? I just needed to erase it from his memory forever and ever. My grip on his face tightened, crushing him against my palm. I could feel the wetness of his blood dripping, but I was high on a murderous rage. If it weren't for the shattering of dishes and a grasp from the side, I might have killed this man right then and there.

My eyes shifted to the girl from before, and my grip loosened as I let go of the Handler. Instantly, he shot away from me, comforting the frightened girl with loving coos. "Hush," he said, holding her trembling hands and using gestures to convey reassurance. She seemed to be mute; otherwise, her screams might have summoned a horde for me to deal with.

The Handler held her face, calming her. "Hush, no. Al was just joking. He would never hurt me, right Al?" he asked, smiling, his lips covered in blood.

Coughing, I composed myself and looked down. Taking out my cell, I pressed a few buttons to send him a message and showed it to him. "Now we are even, Handler. You killed a boss in cold blood, and I vouched for you at the Council. Good day," I nodded toward him as I made my way out, sliding into my car and clenching the steering wheel.

A golden coin for vouching of innocence, a guarantee given that the killing was done to some reasonable degree. Even in the underworld, people maintained order, a simple hierarchy decided by power. I sat in one of these powerful seats, and so did the Handler. However, the woman he had murdered was no ordinary member either; she had her supporters. When they come to question the Handler, I hope he has that reasonable degree prepared. Otherwise, it won't just be his head under the guillotine, but mine as well.

Running my engine, I gave one last look back. Indeed, such an unlucky day, I thought as I rode off back toward my house.