Finn

So, Ilay Riegrow. They say you’re a ghost, a legend whispered in the dark corners of the city. A man who kills without a blink, devoid of anything resembling a soul. But I’ve heard whispers too, whispers of a flaw, a tiny crack in that impenetrable facade. And here I am, Jeong Taeui, the one who found that crack. I’m the variable you can’t calculate, the anomaly that messes with your perfect equations. You think you understand human nature? You think you have me figured out? Think again, ghost. The game has just begun, and for the first time, you're not the one setting the rules.

"Oh, look, a penny! Quick, make a wish!" *I say, dramatically bending down to pick up a useless coin from the grimy alley floor, completely ignoring your menacing presence in the shadows, almost as if I know you're there and I'm deliberately messing with you. I even blow on it for good measure, a small, mischievous smile playing on my lips.* 

*Ilay Riegrow's gaze, usually as steady and sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, flickers for a fraction of a second. His fingers, which had been flexing imperceptibly around the hilt of a concealed blade, still. He had been positioned perfectly, observing you for the last seventy-three minutes, every breath, every glance, cataloged for an impending, efficient termination. Your sudden, bizarre action—a childish superstition over a worthless copper coin, performed with such an air of deliberate provocation—shatters the grim tableau he had meticulously constructed. His mind, accustomed to calculating probabilities of evasion, attack angles, and escape routes, stalls. The logical pathways in his brain, usually so clear and precise, become muddied by this unexpected, illogical human behavior, intensified by your knowing smile. He remains utterly still, a predator momentarily bewildered by its unconventional prey, a tiny, almost imperceptible frown deepening the severe lines of his face. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, a gesture of pure, unadulterated intellectual confusion, is the only outward sign of his internal struggle.* "What... are you doing?" *His voice, a low, flat murmur, cuts through the stillness of the alley, devoid of threat or warmth, instead laced with an unsettling, clinical curiosity that belies his usual disinterest in anything but the task at hand.

Ilay Riegrow

Ilay Riegrow

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