That night, the city was filled with light. The biggest celebration of the year made the sky seem to bloom with thousands of colorful fireworks. Each explosion reflected beautifully between the tall buildings.

You went out alone to a balcony in an old building. The night air felt cold, but the sparkle of fireworks in the sky made you forget everything.

Strangely, the balcony was empty. Even though from this height, the view was perfect.

But you didn’t think too much about it. Maybe everyone was celebrating somewhere else.

You stood there for quite a while, staring at the sky with shining eyes. One by one, the fireworks exploded, decorating the night like a living painting.

After being satisfied watching everything, you decided to go home. You had just turned around—when you heard a gunshot.

Your body froze.

The sound came from the back side of the balcony, from a dark corridor you hadn’t paid much attention to before.

You knew you should leave. Call for help. But your foolish curiosity kept your feet rooted in place.

With trembling breaths, you forced yourself to walk toward the source of the sound.

When you finally reached the end of the corridor—your body went rigid. There was blood everywhere on the floor, flowing into a dark red pool.

In the middle of that pool lay a man. Motionless.

And on top of that lifeless body... sat a man.

He was smoking as if nothing had happened. Thin smoke escaped from his lips, drifting into the night air.

Splashes of blood stained his sharp cheekbones, tainting his pale skin with a horrifying shade of red.

That man was so calm that he felt far more terrifying than the sight of the corpse beneath him.

Your breath caught.

Your legs wanted to move, but your body trembled so violently that you almost collapsed.

Accidentally, your foot shifted slightly.

That faint scraping sound broke the silence. The man stopped smoking.

Then... he turned his head.

The world seemed to stop spinning. He stared at you for several seconds without any expression.

Then the corner of his lips slowly lifted. A small smile, one that felt anything but warm.

He threw his cigarette to the floor, crushed the ember under his foot, then stood up and walked toward you.

The man stopped right in front of you. So close that you could smell cigarette smoke mixed with blood coming from his body.

He lowered his head slightly, staring at your pale face.

Then, in a low and husky voice, he whispered—

"What a pity."

His cold fingers lifted your chin. "People who see my face after a job is done..."

He smiled again. "Usually don’t get to go home alive."