"He hasn't paid me my dues for three consecutive jobs," Cain snarled, "I'll kill him in his own home if he doesn't pay."
Money was desperately needed that night—more than ever; he didn't even have enough for dinner.
He rose from the bed and left his small house, trying to shake off the oppressive mood. After wandering the city streets swallowed by night, an idea crept into Cain's mind: call his director.
He took out his phone and dialed the director's number. "Hello, old man. Looks like you're still awake—that's good."
"Why are you calling me at this hour, you scum?" the director growled.
Cain was silent for a few seconds, then spoke in a loud, grating voice: "Maybe I missed you. Give me my money, you filthy bastard, or I'll kill you in front of your wife and children."
They sank into a long silence after Cain's threat until the director finally spoke, words ripe with fury: "Come on then—do you think getting old has made me weak? I'll kill you the way you want—just come. I'm waiting."
The director hung up while Cain stared at his phone in a deep frown; he pressed it hard until the device shattered into pieces.
"Are you mocking me, you fool? You didn't pay me, and on top of that you threaten me with murder—I'll make you beg."
In truth, Cain was the one who had started with the murder threats, but he focused on the director's reaction and forgot about his own.
He dashed at full speed toward his director's house. He reached his destination, touched the doorknob to enter, then stopped abruptly.
"Wait—maybe his wife and daughters are home. He'll actually kill me if I find them inside."
It was fortunate he thought of that; Cain was not afraid of the director killing him if he walked in on the wife and daughters—what terrified him was being fired if he did it.
He retreated many steps, planted his feet firmly, and then lunged forward quickly, entering through a window.
"Is that the sound of glass breaking? Has that bastard come after me for real?"
The director rose in a panic, running toward his family to find his wife asleep among their small daughters.
He sighed in great relief, but still searched for Cain, bewildered about where to go.
He wanted to check other places, but he feared Cain might come into the living room where his family was.
While he thought of a way to solve it, his body suddenly trembled from an intense killing intent—he realized Cain was above, waiting.
The director ascended the stairs rapidly, his steps silent so as not to wake his wife.
He reached the upper floor to find Cain in front of him—only a few steps between them.
"Welcome, flimsy director. It seems you were waiting for me impatiently."
"If you do anything stupid that wakes my family, I'll kill you, Cain."
The director unleashed a crushing intent to kill; the room filled with an icy chill.
"Even after his retirement and all these years, he still carries that presence and terrifying strength. It's good, truly, that you're my director," Cain murmured as the corners of his mouth trembled.
Cain raised his hands and waved them with a wide smile coloring his face. "I'm joking—just joking, man. Don't take it seriously. I came only to get my money."
The director narrowed his eyes, veins bulging. "What about that overwhelming murder intent, and your breaking into my house like that—after all this, you expect me not to kill you?"
"The truth is I'm broke now. I have no food, nothing—only a roof to sleep under."
They fell into a long silence until the director finally spoke: "And what do you expect me to do for you now?"
Cain smiled, trying to hide the great fury he felt toward the director. "I want my money. After what I told you, you must know I need it more than ever."
The director's eyes tightened until they nearly closed while Cain awaited his answer.
"I won't give you the money. To be precise, I can't give you the money."
Cain froze like a stone statue; his lips stopped moving as he stared at his director.
The moment the director finished speaking, veins bulged on Cain's face like a river of rage.
"Do you realize what you're saying right now, or has age affected you?" Cain roared.
The director stepped forward quickly and stood before Cain, grabbed his shoulder hard, seized his shirt, and flung him out of the house—smashing through the wall. Cain flew high through the air.
He landed in a public park. Cain did not stand; he remained motionless in his fallen position until he removed the shattered glasses.
"If you don't pay me peacefully, I'll make you pay in the way I'm best at."
Cain moved, trying to reach his director's home as fast as possible—he truly wanted to kill him.
A murderous urge surged from him so strong it reached the director.
He pierced through houses and buildings like a bullet, halted at some point, and then leapt high.
Cain looked at his director who stood like an idol atop a building.
"He's still as swift as in his youth—he could kill me if I underestimate him," Cain muttered.
The director produced a long rope and wound it around his arm, showing a savage grin.
"Do you remember this rope, Cain? I'm sure some memories came back to you."
The rope shot and wrapped around Cain's leg; the director yanked with all his might.
When he reached Cain, he strangled him and hauled him up. Cain spoke with a strangled voice, "Are you going to kill your favorite operative—the one you rely on for everything? That would be a loss for the work."
The director frowned, narrowing his eyes. "Unfortunately, I wouldn't lose anything if I killed you."
They sank into a long silence.
"After all, the work is over and everything is suspended."
His voice shrank in his throat; he stopped breathing for a few seconds as the director looked at him with no particular expression, then opened his hand and let Cain fall to the ground.
Neither could speak a single word. The director watched Cain intently.
"Now you may leave. There is no money to give you. You can look for another job or join assassination organizations—after all, our job was only a forgotten part-time work."
"Shut up, you filthy old man. You know better than anyone that I don't want to work anywhere but for you. I hate organizations; I hate serving those who hold authority and control everything," Cain shouted in anger.
The two exchanged prolonged glances until the director raised his hand and pointed a finger at Cain: "Those feelings and desires belong to you alone. They have nothing to do with others, not even with me."
"I don't care about your feelings at all. You can find a solution on your own."
The director vanished immediately after his words; Cain could never sense his presence again.
After hearing that desperate decision from the director, Cain had to find a solution—but he was not that kind of man.
In the end he was zealous about one decision: not to work for organizations. His work was not like theirs; the director's orders had been closer to personal missions than to tasks meant to preserve hidden justice.
Cain stood and smiled bitterly, looking upward until a not-so-distant memory took shape before him.
"Police—the sound of their cars driving their intensive patrols every day."
His smile broke between his ribs. He leapt between buildings until he reached his home.
He had no food, no money, and his job had vanished—leaving behind a bitter void.
"Is this what being unemployed feels like? It's a terrible feeling," Cain muttered.
Amid that bleak atmosphere, Cain heard a knock at the door. Who would come to him at such an hour, by the Creator of Hell?
He rose quickly and opened the door to find a middle-aged man, lined with many wrinkles and the signs of sleeplessness.
Cain offered him no particular expression while the man smiled—this annoyed Cain greatly.
"Hello. I have a message for you."
"You and your message can die."
His hand opened, fingers rising to the man's throat like shadows creeping across the wall.
He squeezed the man's neck with such force that breathing became difficult and then impossible; the man tried to speak but produced inarticulate words.
Moments later he died, strangled and tormented.