The room was wide and high-ceilinged, its atmosphere hushed but expectant. Warm twilight poured in through a row of tall, arched windows lining one side, casting long, honey-gold beams across the polished wooden floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the golden light, giving the air a sense of stillness—as if time itself had slowed for the moment.
At the far end of the room stood a long, dark table. Behind it, the board of interviewers sat in a silent line, their expressions neutral but watchful. Each had a small stack of papers or a notebook in front of them, some with pens poised, others with fingers interlaced as they observed. The soft creak of a chair or the quiet scratch of a pen occasionally broke the silence, but otherwise, the space was filled only with the low hum of the fading day.
The light from the windows silhouetted the interviewers slightly, throwing their faces into soft contrast—half-shadowed, half-lit—like judges in a dream. The walls, painted a muted cream, reflected the twilight gently, further diffusing the glow that made everything feel a little surreal, a little cinematic.
It was a space meant to weigh a soul. Calm, beautiful, but heavy with intent.
"Your name is... how do you pronounce this? Vakh?" asked the man in the middle. He had broad shoulders, wore black-rimmed glasses, and despite the uniform black suit shared by the others, a scar on his jaw set him apart. His sharp jawline tensed as he leaned back in his chair. (Is this a joke? But the ID card checks out.)
"That's my name," replied the young man seated across from them. He crossed one leg over the other, relaxed. His black hair was middle-parted, framing emerald green eyes. He wore a short-sleeved, knitted button-down, black pleated trousers, and white sneakers. His forearms were lean but dense with sinew, and his chest pressed against the fabric of his shirt like he wore a hidden breastplate.
The woman to the right of the scarred man sighed. She was striking—mature, confident, curves emphasized beneath a white corset and open blazer. No glasses, just a lit cigarette dangling from two fingers. Her long hair was dragon-braided with hints of violet shimmering in the twilight.
"This is the first candidate we're interviewing?"
"Never mind that," said the old man on the other side. He was aged, but upright, his mustache as wide as his grin, his goatee trailing like a monk's beard. He looked like he had once ruled a dynasty and just walked out of retirement for fun.
"Vakh, ehm... why do you want to join us?" the scarred man asked.
Vakh shrugged. "Well, I'm young—twenty-eight—and I've got a particular set of skills you might need."
"How long have you been an assassin?" asked the woman.
"Ten years. Maybe more. I kinda lost count."
"Ten years, you must've grown some wisdom," said the old man. "But I sense none of it radiating from your... what do kids call it these days?"
"Aura," the middle man said, deadpan.
"Right."
"Can't help it. I'm a laid-back man," Vakh said, smiling lazily.
"And why do you need this job?" the scarred man pressed.
"You posted an assassin job. I'm an assassin. I'm also broke," Vakh replied.
"You… broke?" the woman raised an eyebrow.
"Life," Vakh exhaled.
"Where do you see yourself in five years?" the scarred man asked.
"Eh... assassinating?" Vakh shrugged.
"O...kay..." the man scribbled something down.
"When was your last hit?" the old man asked.
"Not too long ago," Vakh said with a grin.
"And your last organization?"
"Freelance," he answered.
"Ah, that explains the 'broke,'" the woman said with a smirk.
"Yeah, sorry," Vakh shrugged again. "But hey, if this gig pays well, I wouldn't mind working for money... if I could also take you out on a date, lady."
"...Huh?!" she narrowed her eyes, her glare like a blade unsheathed.
"Oops, haha," Vakh leaned back with both hands behind his head.
The middle man sighed. "Alright, time's up."
"So, am I hired?" Vakh asked, still grinning.
"We'll be in touch," the man replied coolly.
"Does that mean I'm moving on to the next phase of the interview?"
"We've got other candidates waiting," said the man.
Vakh smirked as he rose from his seat.
"I'll await your call," he said, offering a casual two-finger salute. Then he turned and walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
"We are not going to call him," the lady muttered, exhaling a plume of smoke.
The middle-aged man leaned forward with a sigh. "Next!"
Silence.
He frowned and called again, louder. "NEXT!"
Still nothing.
A faint unease crept into the room, subtle as a breath.
"NEX—" he started again, but the old man had already risen. His fingers curled tight around the chair's back before he let go and strode toward the door, a sudden weight clinging to his chest. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
He reached for the handle. Turned it slowly. The door creaked open.
Then, the smell hit him.
Metallic. Warm. Fresh.
His eyes adjusted to the corridor—and his breath caught.
The hallway was a massacre.
Candidates who were once chatting in nervous clusters now lay crumpled like dolls, their bodies broken, necks twisted, faces frozen in horror. Blood streaked the walls in jagged smears. One man was slumped over the reception table, his body missing everything below the ribs. A knife jutted from another's eye socket, still twitching faintly.
A young woman sat upright against the wall, but her throat was slit ear to ear. Her hands were still pressed against the wound, as if trying to hold her life inside. One unlucky soul had been impaled to the corridor's decorative column with nothing but a pen.
The crimson trail led further down.
Where the exit door was left swinging open... and clean, white footprints were marked in red.
The old man didn't speak. His lips parted, but no sound came.
Back inside the room, the lady leaned sideways to peek. Her cigarette fell from her lips.
The middle-aged man stood up slowly. "...That was the test lineup."
The old man closed the door, eyes wide and distant.
"...We are going to call him," he said.