Aconite

 You check the time. Perfect. As intended, you've arrived fashionably late.

“You’re late again.”

“Sorry. I got stuck in traffic.”

“I thought you were gonna use the ‘I forgot something on the way’ excuse again.”

You’ve always been late for work. In fact, you don’t even remember the last time you’ve been on time. You arrive late on purpose because you don’t like waiting. You prefer to have people wait for you.

“You’re lucky the boss takes it easy on you. He’s not so nice with the other fellas.”

“That’s because I always get shit done. It’s all about the results at the end of the day.”

A man in a grey trench coat comes from the restroom and returns to his seat by the bar. He’s sitting on the bar stool in between you and your partner while enjoying his Martini. He then engages in conversation with your partner. You can tell they’ve been talking for a while now, probably since before you arrived. They seem to already be comfortable with each other.

The man is completely oblivious of you as he immersed in conversation with your partner. Good. It’s going to be smooth sailing for you from here.

You look around to see if anyone has their attention on you.

The bartender, who looks to be in his late 40’s judging by his bushy beard and greying hair, is busy making conversation with a young couple at the other end of the bar. They’re newlyweds and they were telling the bartender about the news.

“I always knew that you two would end up married! I just knew it,” the bartender keeps on repeating with a big smile on his face.

You look around some more and notice that there’s no one else around the bar. The tables are all empty. All the people that were sitting by the bar are unbothered by your existence. Perfect.

You reach into your left pocket to bring out a small cylindrical steel flask the size of a finger. Its lid is made of glass, so it’s transparent and you can clearly see the inside if it’s empty or not. Sure enough, it’s half-full with an opaque purplish liquid. You subtly twist the lid open with your hands hidden in between your thighs. Then you delicately drop a precise amount of the liquid into the man in the grey trench coat’s Martini. No one even noticed.

The purple liquid mixed with the Martini flawlessly. The tiny drop of the purple liquid immediately vanishes within a second after it reaches the Martini. The man’s drink remains unsullied as it’s exactly the way it was before you poured anything into it.

The man and your partner halt their conversation for a moment as the man reaches for his Martini. He brings the drink up to his lips and takes a sip.

Out of the corner of your eye you see your partner give you a wink before he turns his attention back to the man who just finished sipping from his Martini.

“Hey. I gotta head home now,” your partner tells the man.

“But it’s still so early,” the man replies.

“Yeah, but my wife isn’t very happy with me right now. I’m trying to earn some good husband points,” your partner explains.

“Yeah. I get you,” the man says.

They were talking about their troublesome lives as married men the whole time. Your partner doesn’t even have a wife.

“I’ll see you around then,” your partner says as he puts on his hat and leaves.

You wait for exactly 5 minutes after your partner left before you leave yourself.

The man, unaware of the strange liquid you poured into his drink, remains at the bar ordering more drinks from the bartender as you walk towards the door to exit the bar. You open the door and step outside into the evening city streets.

Leaning by the wall to your left next to the door is your partner, smoking a cigarette, waiting for you.

“Well that went smoothly,” he says.

“As always,” you reply.

Things did always go smoothly. Both you and your partner have been working together for 2 years now and have never failed a job. What is your job exactly? Well, you basically kill people for powerful men who pay you a price high enough to help you ignore the repercussions and dangers of the job. You’re not the typical button man who just shoots or strangles people though. People like you and your partner specialize in toxicology. Your main weapon is the purple liquid stored in a little steel flask in your left pocket. That’s your poison. The main ingredient of the poison is an extract from a highly toxic flowering plant called aconite, also known as wolf’s bane. That’s why people in the business call you wolves.

The police are still unaware of your existence. It’s because the way the aconite kills you makes your death seem like a natural cause. When it gets into your system, it causes the cessation of the repolarization process of the cardiac cells, which then leads to a heart attack 2 hours upon consumption. It takes a very unusual method to find them in the blood, so it’s relatively undetectable unless if you’re really trying to look for it. And the big bosses don’t just go sending wolves to get rid of everyone. Wolves are only assigned occasionally to exterminate the biggest threats like politicians and nosy detectives. That way, the police won’t be able to make enough of a connection to suspect the heart attacks to actually be murder.

In this particular scenario, you were told that the target would be at a specific bar at a specific time. You received a picture of the target to identify him with. Both you and your partner were supposed to arrive at the same time to be able to assess the situation better, but you prefer to arrive when your partner already has the target distracted, so all you had to do was go in for the kill. In all your past assignments, things pretty much went the same way. You and your partner just follow the same formula and it works every time.

“See you then,” you say before walking away.

“Oh yeah. I forgot to tell you. The old man’s got another job for us today,” he tells you to stop you on your tracks.

“Two jobs in one day? He’s got like a thousand other guys. Why do we gotta do a back-to-back?” you ask confused.

“This one’s a big one. He wants this to be a sure thing. He thinks we’re the most reliable,” he replies.

“How come I’m always the last one to get informed about stuff?” you ask.

“That’s because you’re always late,” he answers.

It wasn’t just the job itself that you were late for. Meetings, group calls, parties, everything. You were always late.

“What’s the job?” you ask.

“Hmmm... you got a nice suit at home?” he replies.

---

You and your partner arrive at the party.

This time, you arrive punctually – this job is too important and you’re taking it seriously. You can’t imagine failing this assignment. Your partner even begged for you to come on time.

You see before you a long red carpet laid out on a massive stairway leading to a palatial mansion where the party is taking place. The palace is about as wide as an entire small village and its entrance a giant gold plated arch the size of a two-story villa. All around you are people wearing the most extravagant attire of different colors and shapes. Even if you and your partner are wearing your best suits, the two of you still stick out like a sore thumb, and not in a good way.

What’s a party as grand as this for? It’s the annual celebration of entitled rich people patting themselves on the back to vainly remind themselves of their contributions to society – you really have no idea what the party is about (they just told you it was a party for “influential” people) and you find being in the presence of such people an exasperating experience.

“You ready?” your partner asks you.

“Yup,” you answer.

Both of you walk up the stairway along the red carpet and pass through the giant arch to enter the party inside. The inside is just as grand as the outside. It reminded you of St. Peter’s Basilica because of the renaissance style paintings, extremely high ceiling, and spacious interior. You don’t even know for sure how many floors there are.

Intimidated by the amount of space to cover, the two of you agree to split-up to find the target. Your partner continues to roam around the main floor while you decide to move up to the second floor.

You go to sit by the bar and order whiskey. While enjoying your drink, you look around to survey the surroundings. You see a bunch of pretentious people in luxurious but bizarre suits and dresses, chitchatting about things that didn’t make any sense to you. No sight of the target.

Suddenly, a woman arrives and sits on the stool next to you. You sense that she’s staring directly at you.

“Looking for someone?” she asks you.

The moment you look at her, your mouth gaped open. You recognize this woman and you know her very well. Her name is Mercilla; someone who was once always by your side in the good old days. Her long blonde hair glistened and gave off an aroma reminiscent of the stargazer lilies your mother once grew in her garden. Her azure blue eyes that pierced right through your heart every time you stared into them are as beautiful as you remembered. She wears a magnificent red dress that perfectly complements her impeccable body shape. And on her neck a subtle but stunning necklace embezzled with flaming red rubies and diamonds scintillating when light shined on it.

“Well, you look like you just found the meaning of life,” she says sneering at you.

Embarrassed, you try to regain composure and come up with something clever to say.

“I did. I found you,” you reply.

The two of you share a gleeful laugh. It was probably the most genuine laugh you’ve had in years.

“So, how have you been? Haven’t seen you in a while. It’s been hmmm..... 11 years now if I’m not mistaken,” she says.

11 years. It’s been 11 years since you last saw Mercilla. You remember everything vividly. It was at her father’s funeral. She was crying and refused to speak with anyone. That was the last day you saw her, and the two of you didn’t even say a word to each other. Apparently, the day after the funeral, she had to move in with her new adoptive father somewhere far away.

“I’m alright I guess,” you reply.

Even if it has been 11 years, it didn’t feel like it while talking to her. It felt just like how you used to talk long ago when her father was still around. Back when she was still your girlfriend.

“So, what did you do to get invited to a place like this?” she asks.

“I’m a lawyer. I’ve got a couple of clients here. Just wealthy people who got in a little bit of trouble. You know how it is,” you reply.

“Yeah, I get you. The people here are dreadful,” she says.

She then gives you a jeering look as if to say, “Really. You. A lawyer?”

“So you’re a lawyer huh? I was not expecting that,” she says.

“Yeah well, a lot can change after 11 years,” you reply.

“Fair enough,” she says.

You take a sip from your whiskey and let out a sigh.

“What about you, what do you do?” you ask.

“Me? I’m a journalist for some news channel. Won a couple of awards here and there. You know how it is,” she replies.

“Showoff,” you jeer at her.

The two of you share another laugh.

“You mind if I order a drink?” she asks.

“Go ahead. No need to ask me for permission,” you reply.

She goes ahead and orders a drink from the bartender.

“I’ll have a Martini please,” she says to the bartender.

The bartender prepares her a Martini. She brings the drink to her lips and takes a sip, then puts the glass back on the table before looking at you with a gloomy expression.

“I heard about what happened to your family. I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago. My parents would be more upset if they found out people were getting sad when thinking about them,” you reply.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” she agrees.

Her face changes to a more cheerful expression.

“Remember the time you took me to prom?” she asks, catching you off guard.

You take a short pause before answering.

“Yes I do. I remember everything,” you answer.

You remember dancing with her to Wonderful Tonight by Eric Clapton. Your hands were on her hips and hers on your shoulders. The whole time you never lost focus on her. That night, she was the most beautiful sight you have ever seen. You were transported with her somewhere else. It was like you and her were the only people remaining on earth. You remember her helping your mother planting lilies on her garden. You remember both of your families spending Christmas Eve under the same roof, sharing apple pie and laughter – those were the best days of your life. You remember when you lost all your family and friends, she was what gave you hope. She was the reason why you continued to live. You thought that maybe someday you could dance with her again, at least one last time. That’s why you became a wolf, pouring aconite in the drinks of mostly middle-aged men. You had nothing left and this job was the only way to survive. You believed that one day you could be with her again.

Suddenly, a stout middle-aged man wearing a navy pinstriped suit interrupts your talk with Mercilla. He came alongside another man. It’s your partner.

Upon seeing the man and your partner, you return to your senses to realize that you’ve completely forgotten about the job. And there the target was; right in front of you.

“Oh hey dad! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. This is an old friend of mine. Back when I still lived in the province,” Mercilla says introducing you to her adoptive father.

“What a pleasant surprise! How are you?” Mercilla’s father greets you as he reaches out his hand to shake yours.

As the two of you are shaking hands, you begin to immensely regret talking to Mercilla. You broke a vital personal rule you made up: NEVER talk on the job.

The real reason why you don’t like arriving on time is because you don’t like the talking part, in fact, you despise it. It’s the part of the job you hate the most. You get anxious talking to people when you’re about to kill a man, especially when you’re talking to the man you’re about to kill or even someone close to him. You feel guilty. When people start to share stories about their ambitions in life and their families, you start to empathize. You realize that they’re just like any other human being. Just like you, or how you used to be rather. You hate forming any sort of connection with other people because you believe that having more relationships just means you have more to lose. You have this condition that most people in your line of work don’t have. You have this disease called “compassion”.

“This man was just telling me a funny story about his estranged ex-wife,” Mercilla’s father says.

Your partner proceeds to tell his fabricated story to fully catch the attention of both Mercilla and her father. And everyone leaves their drink on the table.

Now’s your chance.

You take out the aconite flask from your left pocket. For a split second, you have an argument with yourself on whether or not you should push through with the mission. You thought that guilt might finally get to you. You come very close to deciding to walk away, but you choose to proceed and finish the job as you stealthily pour the aconite into the target’s drink.

“You’re a fucking wolf. That’s what you are,” you thought to yourself.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your partner wink at you before you shift the attention of the group towards yourself.

“Sorry everyone, but I’m going to head home now,” you say as you finish your drink and get up from your seat.

“Don’t you wanna dance first? For old time’s sake,” your old friend asks.

“Sorry. My wife is waiting for me at home,” you lie – just like your partner, you’re not married.

“I’ll walk with you. I have to go home as well,” your partner says before bidding farewell to your old friend and her father.

You don’t even look at her before turning your back from her and her father, and then leaving with your partner. You don’t even want to imagine what expression she had on her face when you just walked away from her after seeing her for the first time in 11 years.

Your partner however, takes a look behind to see if the target drank the aconite.

“Kill confirmed,” he says.

The two of you walk downstairs and leave through the gigantic golden arch to exit the palace.

Your partner looks at you. You get concerned that he might see a disturbed expression on your face, but you don’t look disconcerted at all. Your face is completely emotionless.

“It’s a shame. She was a real pretty one,” your partner brings up.

“Yeah. She was wasn’t she,” you reply.