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[crxmwxll]

@jojotran​

The bar was packed. Musty. Below his pay grade. But then again this was the Interpol , and they weren’t big on the whole minimum wage thing. Rhys couldn’t help but notice the irony. Then again he’s been called high maintenance ( okay so maybe he didn’t need the custom Balenciaga gun holster and matching boots ) but he liked to look good while doing his job -- damn good. And what could they do really? He was the B E S T, and you don’t put out your best.

Which was currently why they were sending him on another mission, tail between their legs, to get a target that’d been on their radar for awhile. Rhys was suspicious about it, he didn’t get much detail in his debriefing packet besides the fact that the person he was assigned to eliminate was a woman, brunette, and had a tattoo of a lotus on her shoulder. He had a lot to work with clearly.

The only other information he’d received was that for some reason she’d be in this bar. Tonight. Why this woman couldn’t choose a less constipated bar to dwell in, he didn’t know. Then again he wasn’t supposed to question targets motives. Technically he wasn’t supposed to question anything at all, but he couldn’t help it. Rhys always enjoyed bending the rules a bit, playing with his food. And whenever he was as bored as he was now, twirling ice cubes in his drink for entertainment, he found himself enjoying playing with his victims. Yeah it was sick, but they were all supposedly ‘bad’, or at least that’s what his superiors told him so he could sleep at night. Growing up in a world of spies and lies, one quickly recognizes that bad is a point of view. Everyone had a reason for their actions. Only sometimes, certain actions rubbed interested parties the wrong way.

That’s why they sent in people like him. Executioners. The ones trained to remove themselves so they could remove someone else with no problem. No remorse. So, he did. Occasionally. Rhys had a knack for getting too close sometimes. There were often too many curiosities left unsolved in the missions he was sent on, and a case like this had him more perky than a strung up golden retriever. Or at least, he was. The allure was dying down the longer it took his patron to show up and he’d looked at his quota of shoulders for the night.

With a huff, Rhys was moments away from sending a message to his handlers that tonight was a bust, when he stood up -- abruptly -- vodka martini quickly soaking into his suit. “SHIT-” he swore as he heard the apologies spewing from a soft voice. “This suit is custom Dior. Can’t you watch where you’re going?”