A Perfect Catch

"It—It's…It's Darkk!" Mike seized Jane's sleeve in alarm, shaking it uncontrollably.

"Hey, stop that! It's making me nervous too!" Jane hissed and jerked off Mike's hands in response. He stood still, glaring at where he saw the silhouette standing before.

Minutes passed by and they both remained frozen in their positions. Jane's hand—which he had stretched out to give a hint of protection to his scared colleague—started stiffening.

"The—there is no answer. Is it Facade?" Mike stuttered, taking a few steps back to touch the stale table.

But his question was answered by silence—from both Jane and the unknown being with them.

The flickering lights were still working, yet they could barely see anything inside the old room. Jane took a long breath and finally dropped his rigid hand in relief.

"Why is it dark even when the lights are on?"

Mike's sudden movements and erratic reactions that kept Jane on edge gradually wore off as he began to think rationally.

He usually acted as a laid-back, scatterbrained person—a total mess in short. But when life gets serious with him, he converts into his true form—the dark horse.

Mike felt Jane reliable after a long time—concluding that he had finally turned on his rusty switches.

"Why?" Mike pondered for a second. "Well, because they are…wait…Yes, why the hell are they so dim?"

...

"But no! Jane, it's not time for that! Somebody's inside!"

"Forget it. He isn't showing himself. It's not our fault." Jane let out a sigh at the mysterious man's sloppy act. "Really… he could have easily knocked us out if he had shown himself right before his you-are-all-doomed entry."

He regretted that he even considered the unknown man as a ghost, let alone a sensible intruder.

"Well, whoever he is, he sure is scary." Mike gulped his fear—still concerned if the mysterious man was hearing them out. But deep inside, there was a small trace of relief—that he was now in safe hands.

In the hands of Jane, 'The Dark Horse' of the Crimson Society.

"Jane…" Mike tapped his back while whispering in a rush. "Take it." He then forced a compass into his gloved hand.

"Just pop out the intruder's eye, okay? You have to be a man! I—I'll support you from behind."

But even after being relieved, Mike's anxiety about ghosts remained unwavering.

"Huh!?"

Jane—completely ignoring their current situation—darted blankly at him.

He compared his forced smile with his trembling hands. The combination was terrible.

...talk about irony.

"Whoever you are, we don't want a fight here." Disappointed at Mike's irrational behavior, Jane shouted at the walls—making his way to the bed on his left.

"You know…it's Facade's property. He'll surely kill you if you sneak around like—"

When Jane finally hopped on the bed, the sharp reverberation ran through his spine and echoed his bones.

What on earth?!!

His eyes widened from the sudden impact. Shortly did he comprehended that it was a concrete slab disguised as a mattress.

Curse you, you damned Facade!

Sudden footsteps resounded through the room— directing toward the bed.

NO!

Jane immediately turned around to warn Mike about the fake bed but, it was too late for that.

Thud!

Mike leaped—visualizing the mattress to be soft and fluffy like his—but he was forced to return to the harsh reality.

Within a second, the old slab cracked from the shock and they both plummeted inside the hollow.

Ahhh!!

The voices filled with many questions faded—bit by bit—and silence was once again achieved inside the dark room.

…

"Dude, being a man with a brain costs you this? That's awful." The same hoarse voice finally reappeared—being disheartened this time.

The mysterious being was standing right beside the door from the beginning, listening to everything the gutter rats had discussed.

But before he could reach the broken slab to inspect his succession rate, the black door flung open.

This time, it was Facade.

Facade looked at the utter silence inside the room and without thinking more, he turned his face to Kneel—waiting for his answer.

"Someone finally fell. I—I mean into my trap. Heh."

Kneel was another victim of Facade's selfish plans—being the first to visit his hideout.

"The same trick?" Facade asked—arranging the papers in his gloved hands.

"Oh, yes. No doubt." Kneel answered honestly—looking at Facade's baroque-patterned gloves. Even if he couldn't see them clearly, Kneel knew that Facade was wearing the same ones he liked.

He was into two things—first one was laying traps for others and second, was fashion.

Just looking at everyday costume of his senior made him want the same.

As Facade's sense of dressing was unique, it was Kneel's duty to note down his antique designs word by word and pass down a custom order at the mansion's private textile shop—often with a letter to convince the head with various reasons.

For today, he was garbed in the same way as Facade was—by a mere coincidence.

Platform shoes and dark green cargo pants for bottoms—with wine-red lace crisscrossing the sides of the thighs and ending with elastic cuffs.

For the top, he wore a black high-neck—with a short sleeveless Ouji-styled dark green overcoat—consisting of gothic ornate buttons and silver clip-on chains draping from his waist.

Despite Facade's bitter nature—they were too stylish and too detailed.

Even Kneel—the fashion addict— had trouble noting down the specifications in one go, as his meetings with Facade were restricted to certain limited hours in the week.

However, Kneel didn't get why Facade always wore his shaggy black cloak over his fashionable clothing.

Humph…that's a blunt way to kill your fashion, Mr. Facade. Because Kneel couldn't say it directly to Facade's face, he inwardly let out his lingering frustration.

"Anyway, that means they're in already? That's a relief."

Facade—overlooking Kneels interest— marched to the place where the pen was previously dropped and laid down the signed paper on the table.

Seeing Facade's reaction, Kneel shrugged his shoulder and reached for the broken slab at last.

"Okay, now you know what to do with them. I'll be leaving the mess to you." Facade, for the first time, gave the upside-down papers a chance to be properly stacked on one side. "Oh, it isn't a big deal. The man with dark hair does have a brain in him." Kneel darted at the hole inside the outdated bed frames. "Well, I can't be sure if it's the same for the guy with blonde hair." He pointed downwards before chuckling slightly.

The hole was the true entry to the hideout—Black Room—where people like Jane and Mike were gathered to serve Facade.

The difference was, they didn't know if they were exactly serving him. All the people that came before the gutter rats—if said this—would eventually forfeit from their contracts and would kiss their death beds instead. 

"Take it and deliver it to the gutter rats." As Facade walked toward the main door, he thrust two papers at Kneel's chest.

Kneel didn't react harshly, instead, he nodded in response—clearly knowing the first step to welcome his fallen guests.

To give a note to each newcomer.

'Leakage of information to others may, no, would probably result in your death.'

And each time Kneel received his first-in-line duty, he would see the same threatening lines scribed inside the paper. He knew for a fact that this cycle wasn't going to change in the near future either.

"Yes, sir." Kneel bowed a little to show his gratitude.

He considered Facade as his savior but, little did he know what lay beneath his good deeds.

When Kneel was about to fold the papers in half, he faintly saw one of the corners colored in wine-red. His brow creased and his hands stopped unexpectedly.

"What's this, Mister Facade?"

Facade, who had just passed the threshold of the door halted at Kneel's sudden question.

"What now?" He turned his face to his shoulder.

Kneel stood still inside the dark room—seeing the man of fashion right before his eyes.

The moon shone upon Facade—enveloped in a slick, black veil.

His silver chain reflected the dim light of the moon—and his dove-grey hair highlighted the dull background behind.

But Kneel's eyes weren't fixed on either of them, rather, they were astonished to see the wine-colored liquid gleaming faintly under the pale light of moon.

His bleeding arm.

"Facade, your left arm. It's…bleeding."

Everyone in the mansion knew about the elite spy—Facade. He couldn't be hurt. Neither by metal bullets nor by deadly poisons.

Not even by himself.

But to see him wounded was a real shock to Kneel, as it was the first time he could feel the man standing outside—to be a human.

To be like a normal person for once.

"This?"

Facade lifted his left arm and pointed it with the other. "Yes, I know. Anything else?"

"Huh? Anything else!? What in the... You just wait here, okay? I've got a bandage inside. I'll be right back!"

Kneel didn't hear Facade stating that he didn't need anything and broke into a dash— leaping inside the hole to enter the real hideout.

When Kneel completely merged into the darkness, Facade let out a breath—watching his blood drip on the cold ground.

It's been ages since I've bled.

Facade was half-glad that it happened.

What does a person want in this dangerous world of uncertainty if given a chance? Facade could say that it would be something like his impenetrable veil.

The veil—his shield— that prohibited interactions in case of any danger. The ultimate thing that contains its own world inside its holder.

A demesne without actually having one.

Facade previously tried to harm himself for confirmation of the veil's authenticity—but it became hard and repelled his own action.

As for his bleeding arm, there was only one explanation left.

The veil becoming hard and sharp beyond its limit.

It was a rare case to discuss, but it often happened with Facade.

Whenever he became way too reckless with himself—like deciding to cover a distance from the peak of a tall tower right to the ground level—his black coverage took a heavy aftershock and left him with a small scar.

Just a scratch worth bleeding.

In tonight's case, however, when Facade showed the gutter rats a way out from the rooftop, the cops suddenly surrounded them in circles.

His choice that time was something unimaginable—to jump off the tallest building there was.

Fortunately, his act bought him a lot of attention from the cops and made a clean way for the gutter rats to escape successfully.

And for the curiosity of the armed Forces—as to whether the man they all despised was alive or not—Facade surprised them by sprinting towards the bushes after a minute of pure-dead acting.

But in return, his head spun like a carousel for a couple of minutes, and he decided not to do the stunt unless there was a real emergency.

I didn't notice that the building was so high it left me with an actual wound.

Facade finally felt his arm throbbing in pain, so he pressed it hard with his right hand—leaving his black hideout and a worried man behind.

The tide of thoughts started to rush through his mind once he settled in his car.

Now then…I can't afford to go to the mansion, not when I'm halfway there. Hump…I need to get myself caught.

There's no point getting in if you have to get out. Guess I'll be breaking my rules for once.

The streets were empty at that hour of night but, Facade still sensed two cars—following him uphill.

Hah. Thank God you buffoons started following me not long after I left the hideout! Perfect.

Facade smirked. The cops of the Forces had saved his time by presenting themselves first. 

Although, they were previously in a chase with him, but Facade dodged them in no time and took his way to drop the gutter rats to his hideout. 

But he knew what value his hideout held if it were to be detected by any of the men in uniforms—especially when he was again found after disappearing for hours in the same area—so he decided to move farther from the current zone and... to be serious about it.

The sirens started to wail, and they started catching up to Facade's car.

That's more like it!

He accepted the silent challenge thrown by the cops and started to barrel down the hill.

Facade drove the car as though it was a part of his body. Swerving it, weaving between lanes and drifting it through sharp turns.

He stalled the cops for at least fifteen to sixteen minutes straight—appreciating their driving skills at one point while finding their weak spots at another.

When he felt the need to pause his what-the-Forces-have session, he slammed on the brakes.

There was a jerk—causing Facade to skid from his seat. Still, the rusty car didn't bother to deploy the airbag for him.

He expected the malfunction and slid back to the headrest—chuckling at his cool driving skills.

Finally taking a deep breath inside, he wore a cool act on his face—getting ready to complete the last mission with all he got.

Facade was really pissed about one thing though—about how the renowned Forces always leaves a gap in their firm strategies.

He had counted the number of cat-and-mouse game he had played with them, but each time, Facade was one enjoying the moment while the other side was just forced to tag along with him.

That makes it the sixteenth time. But, oh, you bunch of energy wasting duffers! I'll let you win for once.

The cars behind Facade abruptly veered—letting out a sharp squeal in the end.

Without worrying about the working engine, the unsettled officers stomped their way toward the rusty car.

"Youuuu—damn you!!" One of the men grasped Facade's hand and tossed him out of the old-fashioned car.

"We finally got him!" Another cheered from behind—as though they had finally caught their first fish out of the pond.

"The credit goes to my worn-out car, you know." Facade—who was grabbed from almost every direction—opened his mouth.

"Well, we did it. Our up-to-date strategy and planning caused this result. " Facade sensed one of the witty man between the crew—trying to rub on Facade's failed escape—which he himself did on purpose.

"As you say." Facade couldn't bother arguing the man's ego and replied in his favor.

Just his little snicker ticked off the man filled with pride—his sarcastic expression falling into the den of his anger.

"On the knees!" He barked at Facade's face and altogether, they forced the resisting Facade on his knees—which he absolutely hated the most.

"Jerks," Facade's tongue unconsciously slipped from the annoyance.

The officers didn't speak back.

This was when he realized that his voice was yet again too low to match the required frequency.

Like it happened in the mansion before.

"Just wrap him up like a roll, guys!" One bold voice passed an order to his pioneers, making them work like a machine with a single button.

Facade was sure that the man standing a feet away from him, was the head of the crew.

And likely, the ignorant man was second to him.

There were total six of them. Four holding Facade tightly, one checking his rusty car, and another was the care-free head himself.

One of the four people—the very tall one—grabbed Facade's arms behind his back and locked the handcuffs around his wrists.

Although the bending of his left arm stung badly, Facade managed to remain calm.

"First thing first! Reveal his masked face! Now, hurry!"

"Yes, sir!"

Facade heard the men all over him shouting in unison.

"You can't take it off, guys. Let's get over with this quickly."

Facade said—wanting to get over their mighty act as soon as possible.

"Shut up, you dirty rat!" the head was the first to respond. "What would a lurking gross piece of a trash know what we went through!" He gritted his teeth. "Just because of your existence! You Jerk!"

...

Oh?

"Well…" Facade—who turned calm after hearing his insult instead of being agitated—served his face in the direction of the head officer.

"Officer Stern," he giggled when the officer approached him closely— likely to clutch his face.

"Let's see if you can achieve the glory that I can't."