Young Writers Society

Part 1.

It was tradition for Esra to have a celebratory night on the town after landing a job. This is what took her and her closest friend, Bridget, to Magnum Pride's Annual Art Show. Magnum Pride was an eccentric artist to match his eccentric name, and someone who Esra was endlessly inspired by. His paintings just somehow screamed the emotions she was unable to articulate herself. As a girl she aspired to become an artist herself, but her parents quickly discouraged her. As one was a successful businessman, and the other a lawyer, they couldn't stand idly by as their only child chose a career path that, according to them was, "Bound to leave you on the streets!"

So, she lived vicariously through Pride's work instead. His rise to fame was a quick one. Critics predicted this was a sure sign of a quick fall, as well, but Pride had managed to stay consistently relevant for the last four years. And Esra had kept up with him all the way.

She currently stood in front of his most recent piece, a small canvas titled, "Ghost Kisses." Esra didn't want to blink as she tried to soak it all in. To most, it might have just looked like wispy, sporadic strokes of a brush, but to her, the grey-scale shapes were placed so precisely, so delicately.

"Es, hear this with love, 'cause you know I love you, but this is the most boring waste of a Saturday night." Bridget spoke, coming up beside her and glancing briefly at Ghost Kisses. "I know I said I wouldn't mind tagging along, but..."

Bridget was nearly a head taller than Esra, and built like a model. Esra knew how long her exhausting morning routine took, but to anyone else, her brown curls, natural makeup look and even the choice of her outfit would probably look effortless. Bridget wasn't exactly a party girl, but she definitely wasn't an art gallery kind of girl either.

Esra took one more long lingering look at Ghost Kisses before turning to her friend. "Alright, we can go."

Bridget could barely contain her excitement to be out of that "stuffy, life draining gallery," as they exited out into the busy evening streets. The smell of rain and wet asphalt punctured the air. Though her friend rambled on about her recent life events, Esra's mind wondered, trying to imagine how Pride might try visualise those smells.

✧ ✧ ✧

Today was the big day. Esra sat patiently in a booth at the back of a rather shady restaurant. She grimaced as she watched the chef through the door to the kitchen sneeze, putting little to no effort to shield his dish from his germs. She would have much rather preferred to go somewhere half decent, but the location was up to her employer. She had learned over the years of being a hitman that the location her employer chose spoke a lot about who they were.

In this case, Esra surmised, this employer wasn't very experienced in these kinds of dealings. If they were, they would have chosen a place less discrete. Not that experience warrants a lack of caution, but Esra found discretion wasn't as necessary as most would assume for this portion of the job. Most people don't pay much attention to the people around them, so the patio of, say, a coffeehouse wouldn't be any more or less dangerous than this hole in a wall diner straight out of a health inspector's worst nightmare.

She pulled a folder from her bag, laying it out on the table. She wanted one last look at the file she'd put together before her client got here. She had concluded, in the least offensive way possible, that he was pretty unspectacular. Jackson Tay, 29, graduated high school with a below average GPA and hadn't had a stable job since. 

Just then, the front door opened and a rather weaselly looking man slipped inside. He was thin, and his hair was a mop of greasy black curls. He made his way to Esra's booth and, after a hesitant pause, asked, "Are you Mrs. Wyatt?"

"Ms." She corrected, and gesturing to the seat across from her. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Tay. Please, sit down."

He complied, sliding into the booth. He dug a rather worn white envelope from his back pocket and slid it across the table to her. "Here's half of it, just like you said. And all the information I could get on him."

Esra restrained from rolling her eyes as she grabbed the envelope. Could he be any more conspicuous? She glanced to the kitchen door and saw the chef watching them. Catching her gaze, he averted his eyes, but he was sure to go back to watching once she looked away. She put the envelope into her bag.

"You're not going to count it?"

"Do I have reason not to trust you, Mr. Tay?" Esra asked, gathering the rest of her things back into her bag.

"I s'pose not." He mumbled. "So you can do it?"

Esra nodded. "I'll spend the week looking over it and gathering information. There's a process to these things, you know." She explained. "But I can almost assure you, whoever it is," she patted the pocket with the envelope, "they'll be out of your hair in no time."

Later that night when Esra got home, the envelope was left on kitchen counter, where it stayed untouched for the next several days.

She couldn't come up with any valid reasons why she procrastinated on looking at it. She supposed she just felt it didn't deserve any immediate attention. Based off of who gave it to her, she assumed the job would be quick and simple, so leaving it be for a short time wouldn't do any harm. But on a particularly slow night, Bridget wasn't home, the wifi was out, and Esra was left with herself and her thoughts, she decided then would be a good time to look through the information Mr. Tay had given her on his target.

She brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and took her time making a cup for herself before sitting at the dining table and tearing the envelope open. The contents were as such; half the payment for her services, and several folded papers that no doubt held the secrets of her target. She took a sip from her coffee as she unfolded the papers.

She choked, dropping her mug directly into her lap, coffee splashing everywhere. The burn of the coffee seeping into her clothes barely phased her as she sat staring into the eyes of the picture of her target.

Magnum Pride.

A/N: This is one heck of a rough draft, so go hog wild, fellas.