In the living room, the walls wore a deep, dramatic hue as a backdrop to an intricate mural of delicate branches, vibrant blossoms, and tiny, hand-painted birds—an enchanted garden concealed within the room's confines. This lush tableau set a quietly magical mood.
At its center, the seating area beckoned with plush comfort: a generous green-velvet sofa cradled a lady in a sky-colored gown. Time had etched gentle lines upon her face, and she lifted her teacup with a graceful, weary hand, her clear eyes fixed on the young man opposite. He sat in a matching velvet armchair—his pale skin and striking features framed by a long brown coat and hat, a suitcase resting at his side. He returned her gaze with an easy smile, savoring the tea between them.
A low, elegant table with sculpted legs and a neat doily stood between them, ready to hold a book or cup. To one side, a darkly carved fireplace dominated the wall, its classic lines echoing bygone eras. Above, a grand chandelier scattered prismatic light, while in the corner, a tasseled lampshade cast a softer glow. Underfoot, a rich rug of reds and blues tied every element together in woven harmony.
The young man broke the hush. "So, ma'am, are you buying it?"
She sighed—worn from repeating herself. "This is the thirty-fourth time I've said I'm not interested."
He merely smiled and lifted his cup once more.
Annoyed, she tapped the teacup. "That's the seventh tea you've had here. Aren't you worried about diabetes?"
He set his cup down calmly. "You wouldn't believe it, but diseases don't touch me—I'm highly immune."
She huffed, exasperation flaring now. "May I ask, Mister, when you'll depart? I want nothing, and besides, my husband returns soon. Better you leave before he comes and throws you out."
"That's quite rude of you," the man said, his smile deepening.
"Says the one I've refused thirty-four times," the lady replied, her voice sharpening. "And the one who's drained seven cups of my tea, yet still refuses to leave."
Her expression now held a flicker of light anger, a quiet edge beneath her composure.
"What else can I do? It's part of my job," the man said, adjusting his tie with practiced ease before flashing that same infuriating smile.
"Your job is to sell things—not to force your way into people's homes and drink all their tea!"
The lady slammed her hand on the table, the porcelain rattling faintly as her patience thinned.
The man raised a hand gently. "Calm down, ma'am," he said with that same collected smile that only fueled her irritation.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
A heavyset man stood in the frame, squeezed into a small white shirt that barely reached over his bulging stomach. Below, a worn brown pant clung to his legs, a revolver holstered awkwardly on his left hip. His face bore a crude resemblance to a pig—round, coarse, with a patchy brown beard. Compared to him, the salesman looked like an angel carved from ivory.
"What's going on, Ansa?" the man asked, his oddly feminine voice slicing through the tension.
The lady's eyes went wide. Beads of sweat traced her temple as fear took over her expression. "De-dear, it's not what—he... it was just—"
"Are you cheating on me?!" he shrieked, his voice sharp and strange, a painful contrast that made the salesman wince.
The salesman simply shrugged, still smiling. "I'm not interested in her. She's a bit too old for me."
"What do you mean by that?! I'm not THAT old!" the lady snapped, then immediately covered her mouth in shock.
The fat man's expression twisted. His eyes brimmed with tears, rage trembling in his hands. "You MOTHERFUCKER!" he screamed, drawing his revolver and firing without hesitation.
But the bullet never landed.
Time halted.
The air froze. The salesman stood, now with a flat, unamused expression. He let out a sigh. "This is why I hate over sensitive, pathetic people."
He flicked the bullet aside mid-air and reached into the paused moment, calmly removing every remaining round from the revolver's chamber. Then, with a subtle shift, time resumed.
The fat man blinked, confused. "Where'd the bullet go?" He fired again. Nothing. "What the fuck? I reloaded it yesterday—every damn bullet!"
The salesman opened his fist slowly.
All the bullets fell from his palm to the floor with a soft clatter.
"How... how did you do that? Did you have—an assassin ability?!" the fat man stammered, his eyes bulging in disbelief. The tears on his swollen, pimpled face mixed with sweat as fear overtook him.
"Yes, I have an ability," the salesman replied, his voice void of warmth. "Playtime. It allows me to stop time for five seconds. It activates automatically—whenever something threatening comes at me or I'm going at it."
The ever-present smile on his face had vanished, replaced by an expression as cold as steel. The air around him seemed to chill, his presence now suffocating.
The revolver slipped from the fat man's hand and clattered to the floor. He stumbled back, reaching for the door with shaking fingers. Nervous laughter escaped him.
"Y-you can take that damn bitch! I've got money—I can get anyone!"
"I don't need her," the salesman muttered, his hand slowly sliding inside his coat.
"I-I can pay you! You won't have to struggle a day in your life!" the fat man pleaded, trying to negotiate his way out of death.
Ansa gritted her teeth, rage building in her eyes as she watched her husband cower.
"How much?" the salesman asked coolly, hand now resting on the suitcase once more.
"...One million platinums!" the man offered desperately, nearly breathless.
"One trillion," the salesman replied, his coldness twisting back into a smile.
"What?! A-a trillion?! I don't have—maybe I can give you an—"
BANG.
The shot echoed through the room.
The fat man's head burst apart. Ansa screamed, horror and disbelief carved across her face.
The salesman blew the gun's smoke away calmly.
"One down."
The salesman turned his gaze to Ansa, a smile stretching across his face. It wasn't warmth—it was the kind of smile that made her bones chill.
"I-I can marry you," she stammered, backing away slightly. "Yeah... I never wanted to marry that pig. I was dragged into it by his mo—by his family..."
BANG.
Her head snapped back as the bullet tore through it. She collapsed instantly.
The salesman calmly adjusted his hat, eyes settling on her lifeless body.
"Pathetic gold digger," he muttered with a smirk.
He knelt down, unlocked his suitcase, and pulled out delicate perfume bottles and cosmetic products—each one gleaming. Without hesitation, he hurled them to the floor, glass shattering across the ornate rug.
Then he wandered deeper into the house.
Drawers pulled open. Shelves ransacked. He scoured each room with silent, focused energy. Eventually, he returned to the living room and started tossing things wildly—vases, books, ornaments. Paintings were ripped from the walls, one after another.
Behind one weathered canvas, he paused.
"A locker?" he scoffed. "What a pathetic place to hide money."
He knelt and tried to pry it open, but it resisted. Without a second thought, he threw his head forward to smash it open—but just before impact, time froze.
His body hung mid-motion, just inches from the metal.
With a casual snap of his fingers, the locker clicked open.
Time resumed.
He calmly stepped back, grabbed his suitcase, and began stuffing it full of thick stacks of platinum bills.
"I'll drink as much as I want," he said with a low chuckle.
With the case secured, he walked to the window and leapt.
His body dropped toward the narrow street below, but before he could hit the ground—time stopped again.
Suspended in mid-air, he hovered for a breath before gently landing on his feet. Not a sound. Not a witness.
He tipped his hat, turned into the alley's shadow, and vanished.
The salesman arrived at the factory, its towering structure casting long shadows in the late light. He stepped inside and approached the counter, opening his suitcase just slightly—just enough to slide a portion of the stolen money forward.
"Here," he said coolly. "Earnings from the products."
An old man stood across from him—tall, broad-shouldered, with a long face framed by a thick white beard and a bald head that gleamed under the factory lights. His presence was stern but warm.
"You're back again after selling everything?" the old man said, surprised. Then a soft, proud smile appeared. "You're a hard worker. I'm proud of you."
He reached out and patted the salesman's head with a heavy, fatherly hand.
The salesman kept smiling, tilting his head slightly in mock humility. He played the part perfectly—eyes soft, expression flattered.
Now I can go drink as much as I want,he thought coldly, the warmth in his expression vanishing the moment he turned his back.
All night long, he drank—tea.
Cup after cup. Thirty-four and counting.
He wandered the dimly lit streets with a quiet grin on his face, the city humming around him. The alleys whispered secrets only he could hear, and the neon signs flickered like dying stars above.
Steam rose from his latest cup as he strolled, lost in his own world, until—
Click.
A sudden voice cut through the silence.
"Don't move—bitch."
The words came from behind, sharp and low, laced with threat.
The salesman paused mid-sip, eyes half-lidded, and smiled to himself.