Graygun stepped into the salon, and the moment the barber caught sight of him, he approached with a knowing smile and leaned in to whisper something in his ear.
The salon was quiet, with only one customer seated beneath the soft hum of the clipper. The barber, having briefly attended to Graygun, quickly returned to his work, resuming his focus on the man in the chair.
Graygun walked toward the far end of the salon, where a black curtain hung quietly in the corner. Pulling it aside, he found himself facing a door secured with a passcode lock.
He entered the code, and the door slid open, granting him passage into a dark room. Without hesitation, he switched on his flash light and then located a switch which he turned on and the first image that caught his eyes was a man sitting silently, dressed in a black suit. At first, the man wore a hat tilted low, casting a shadow over half of his face. But as Graygun stepped closer, the stranger slowly removed the hat, revealing his face entirely.
A table and a chair stood between Graygun and the man in the suit. Graygun pulled out the chair and sat down, now facing the man directly.
"Not replying messages, I see," the man said as he placed a briefcase on the table.
"Been busy' graygun replied
Without saying a word, the man in the suit opened the briefcase, revealing stacks of dollar bills. He slid it across the table toward Graygun.
And then, the man dropped a photograph on the table and slid it toward Graygun. Graygun picked it up, and as his eyes fell on the image of a man, he didn't need anyone to explain—he already knew. This was the next target. Termination was inevitable.
"I'm on break, you see," Graygun said as he placed the picture back on the table.
"And since when do assassins take vacations?" the man said, his voice sharp. "You're a killer, not some office worker. And the last time I checked, no vacation lasts four years."
"And after four years of sitting around doing nothing, I assume you need some money. Everyone does," the man said, his tone calm but firm.
A lot was already running through Graygun's mind at the mention of money. He knew he needed it—his rent was almost due, and beyond that, there was his son. A boy he hadn't seen in four long years, yet still, he carried the weight of providing for him, even from a distance.
Graygun let out a sigh and, without saying a word, picked up the picture from the table once more. "Full details," he said calmly.
"Stay alert tomorrow," the man said, his voice low but firm. "A message will be sent to you, and this time, make sure you respond the moment you see it."
He stood up and walked to the exit. After entering the code on the lock, the door clicked open, and without saying a word, he stepped out, leaving Graygun alone in the room.
"Too old for this," Graygun muttered as he stood up, ready to leave.
It was only 10:30 a.m.—far too early for any barbershop to close its doors—but the quiet hum of clipper and casual chatter had already faded into silence. Something else was at play. Graygun and the barber exchanged a brief, knowing glance, the kind that spoke louder than words. Without a single customer left in sight, they stepped out together, locking the glass door behind them. The bright "Open" sign still flickered faintly in the window, a quiet contradiction to their sudden departure. Whatever business had brought them together that morning, it clearly extended far beyond haircuts and styling chairs.
They stood outside the salon, the morning sun casting long shadows at their feet, waiting in silence for the ride Graygun had ordered. The street was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional passerby. Graygun kept his gaze fixed down the road, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, while the hairstylist shifted restlessly beside him, glancing at his watch from time to time. Both of them knew that what came next would be far from ordinary.
Shortly after, the ride pulled up beside them. Without wasting time, Graygun and the barber got in, and the car drove off, leaving the quiet street behind.
The ride pulled up on another quiet street, its tires coming to a gentle stop. Graygun and the barber stepped out and walked toward a white-painted building surrounded by a tall fence. The street was still and silent, giving the place an almost eerie calm as they approached the gate.
The barber retrieved a key from his pocket and unlocked the gate. He gestured for Graygun to enter first, then followed closely behind. Once they were both inside, the barber locked the gate securely.
As the barber unlocked the main door, they stepped into the house. The sitting room, tastefully arranged with a simplicity that suited a single man, lay before them.
Graygun helped himself to the sofa, sitting down without waiting for an invitation. The barber joined him, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. He poured a glass for himself and another for Graygun.
"So Gray wassup" the barber said as he gave Graygun a glass filled with wine
"Nothing, just the usual," Graygun replied as he took a slow sip of his wine.
"Oh, come on, man. I'm no child. I saw the way you walked out, cold as ice, after that brief meeting with the boss."
"It's just strange that after our last mission, we're already getting our hands dirty again. Feels a little too soon, if you ask me," Graygun muttered.
"Something's clearly wrong, because last time I checked, our last mission was a success. So I wonder what you're on about. If there's anything—anything at all—you know you can confide in me."
Graygun let out a sigh and said, "It's just... I've been having nightmares ever since our last mission."
"I keep seeing this little kid from our last mission in my dream," Graygun continued, his voice low. "And every time, he's holding a gun, with tears streaming down his cheeks."
"Sparing that kid was a bad idea after all. Wish you had listened to me," the barber said.
"So, what do you think we should do now? Tomorrow's another hit," he said.
"I'll need you for something tomorrow while I wrap things up," he said.
"Shoot' the barber said
"I'll need you to go back to—" Graygun began, but before he could finish, the barber cut him short.
"Don't tell me you want me to go back there. Come on, man, it's been four years. You really think anyone still lives there? We wiped them all out, except for that kid. I'm guessing he's probably in a foster home or something by now."
"Just this one thing, alright? I'm asking you—please, do me this favor. That's all I ask, man," he said, his voice low and sincere.
"Fine, I'll do it, man. I've never seen you like this before," he said with a reluctant sigh.
Graygun raised his glass, intending to take another sip, but paused when he realized it was empty. With a quiet sigh, he set the glass down on the table and leaned back against the sofa, sinking into its worn embrace.