Hellebores
"I will be the one calling the shots, not you. Your duties and responsibilities will be outlined by me. I will watch your progress and actions closely, and I will not hesitate to punish you if you step out of line..."
His voice is laced with control and authority, his words harsh yet sharp, like a knife aimed at my throat.
"I understand the terms of the contract," I said with a neutral inflection, my tone devoid of emotion.
Even though the contract is weighted in his favor, I have no choice but to accept it if I want the chance to prove my innocence. I try to hide my discomfort at the fact that the contract is not fair and that he is essentially holding all the cards. However, at least he has clarified the terms and I know what is expected of me.
Or I could just bare my fangs at him and choose violence to settle it as the main course for today's dinner, then go home and have a good night's sleep, but I choose to be a peaceful being and prove that I am no threat to him.
But I really do feel like bursting into action, like snapping his neck and ripping him to pieces with my teeth.
The sound of a snap of fingers from him makes my spine tighten and calls out attention. I saw his men come closer, the air charged with a tense atmosphere. The men set a table in front of me and lay out a paper, a contract, a signed document that would bind me to the organization.
I glanced down at the contract laid out on the table, my eyes scanning the details from start to finish. It's a simple and straightforward contract, delineating my responsibilities and duties as the organization's kobun.
Kobun?
I suddenly remember a neighboring uncle telling me stories about criminal organizations and how the kobun are the lowest rank. They're the servants who are basically expected to obey all the orders of the higher-ranked members.
Those criminal organizations are yakuza.
The earlier accusations finally make sense, and I'm beginning to see the bigger picture. I'm caught up in a criminal organization and I can see very few ways out.
Fuck.
As I read every detail of the contract, some parts caught my curiosity. There's a section that describes the benefits, and the amount of money is staggering.
Ah, fuck. It's easily 10 times the amount a doctor would make for an annual salary.
I pretend to read for more than 10 minutes before signing the contract, making it seem like I'm carefully considering the terms and conditions. My heart is beating rapidly as I hold a pen over the contract, holding onto my calm demeanor.
The amount of money promised in the contract is more than I could ever want. It's almost like a game of chance that I've won, and the jackpot is within reach.
Even though everything has a price, I'm willing to ignore the danger and risk for now. There's something intoxicating and alluring about the amount promised in this contract. I'm blinded by the promise of money and power, and I refuse to see the consequences of my actions.
I quickly jot down my signature on the document, the ink of my signature a stark contrast against the crisp, white paper, sealing my deal with the yakuza organization.
Between Hellebores Madden and Alexei Ishiyama. So that is his name. Is he Japanese? He doesn't look like one. His beauty seems more of a European.
I push back the papers after signing the contract and finally release my breath. The act of signing the paper is final, and I feel a wave of relief as I realize the magnitude of what I've just agreed to. Then I looked up from the papers to see the man still gazing at me.
"When do I start?" I broke the silence with a question.
"You start tonight." his response was swift and ominous.
I glance quickly at his expression to gauge his mood, but the stoic and impassive look on his face makes it hard to tell what he's thinking or feeling.
"The mission details will be sent to you via a secure channel, and your mission will begin tonight. You will have until the afternoon to prepare. Fail to complete the mission, and the consequences will be dire. I trust you understand the stakes," he added.
"And what am I supposed to do tonight?" I asked.
"Tonight, you will be given your first task. You will be briefed on the situation at that time." He answers, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He's vague and difficult to make sense of. I feel like there's more that he's not saying. I suddenly feel like this man is trying to intimidate me, and I'm starting to feel frustrated and uncomfortable with his lack of clarity. I don't like being left to speculate and fill in the blanks all the time.
I notice that he whispers quietly to his subordinates. It's like he's issuing a silent command that I'm not supposed to hear. I wonder what he's telling them.
As the man's men leave the two of us alone, I feel a sudden sense of uneasiness creeping in as my imagination starts to run wild with possibilities.
He shifts his attention back to me and his eyes lock onto mine, and he nods his head in a subtle gesture.
"Follow me." He said calmly, yet his tone was forceful and authoritative.
His eyes remain fixed on me as he signals for me to follow him. He doesn't say another word, but his eyes are full of intensity and determination. His glare is insistent, and his expression is resolute, like he expects me to obey without question.
Looks like he won't take 'no' for an answer. He's not asking or ordering me around. He is threatening me.
I complied.
He leads me out of the room and down a dark hallway, the air heavy with tension and the smell of stale tobacco smoke.
The halls are narrow and cramped and the walls appear to be painted with an ominous shade of black. The man walks quickly and confidently, his heels stamping against the floor with every step. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my throat as the silence becomes deafening.
As I halt in my steps, he stops abruptly and looks back at me. For a moment, there was only silence between us and I felt the weight of this moment right now.
I ignored him and glanced at the paintings that line the hall. The ominous and shadowy paintings appear to be portraits of people with twisted faces. The dark and twisted imagery is intriguing but unsettling.
As I reach out to touch one of the portraits, the man's expression quickly changes from its stoic veneer to a fierce and menacing glare. He quickly grabs my hand and pulls me away from the painting, his grip tight and his expression menacing.
I feel taken aback by his sudden and intense reaction to my curiosity, and I wonder why the man is so resistant to my touch. I can't help but wonder what's behind these ominous paintings. So I decided to ask the man a question.
"Why can't I touch the paintings?" I asked with a hint of innocence in my tone.
"For your own good." He doesn't elaborate any further, just leaving a hint of danger and mystery hanging in the air.
The words hint at danger, and yet he doesn't give a clear reason why he doesn't want me to touch the paintings. I feel like there's more to his response than he is letting on.
His eyes dart between me and the paintings before he turns back to me and gestures for me to continue following him.
"The path ahead has more paintings scattered along the way. I don't want you to touch them." he says in a low and cold voice, his face devoid of any emotion.
As I follow him, my attention is divided between the paintings and himself. I observe the paintings with more attention and notice the distorted images of familiar human features that become darker and more detailed with every step we take.
As I walk along the passageway, I notice a particular painting that stands out from the rest. It is a scene of a woman's face, filled with agony as she cries out in anguish. Her face is a twisted image of human features, as if tortured. The woman is surrounded by an abundance of red roses, which look like they're devouring her flesh and devolving her into a red mist.
Unconsciously, I mimic the woman in the painting, tears start to flow down my cheeks, my expression contorting into a look of sorrow...