It seemed that Cointreau had failed to calculate successfully this time.
That was what Gin thought as he watched the bald man—who had been sitting on the ground paralyzed by fear—finally stagger to his feet.
Though he was mildly surprised, he wasn't particularly shocked.
After all, relying on "accidents" to kill people was always unpredictable—environmental factors, the target's reflexes, even the angle of impact. A single misstep in any of these links could lead to a total failure.
In fact, Cointreau had almost succeeded—if the angle of the front bumper had been even slightly different, it might have ended very differently.
Since the time in Cointreau's text had already passed, Gin assumed that was the end of it.
"Cointreau actually failed..."
Vodka, standing beside him, muttered aloud as he watched the bald man stumble away through the scope.
He wasn't sure what he felt.
Maybe a little relieved.
Ever since Cointreau joined the Organization, Vodka had always felt a strange pressure when around him. The fact that danger seemed to follow him like a shadow was unsettling… especially since, just a few days ago, he'd heard Cointreau was possibly suffering from some mental illness?
"The mission failed. Want us to clean it up?"
Chianti asked with delight. The psychotic woman seemed to take great joy in the idea of hunting down people.
"Let me do it," said Korn, stepping forward quietly.
"Hey! I called it first!" Chianti snapped.
"Whoever gets the shot first gets the kill."
"Shut it, both of you. That's not your mission—"
Gin was about to shut them up when his phone buzzed again.
Rather than look at the screen right away, Gin instinctively turned his eyes to the intersection below, a strange premonition creeping in.
The bald man, still shaken, glanced at the totaled vehicle that had almost killed him. He muttered angrily—perhaps cursing his luck—and took a few steps backward—
A human figure fell violently from the sky and slammed into him.
The moment was so sudden, so seamless, that Gin and the others were caught entirely off guard. Both the bald man and the man who had fallen lay motionless on the ground, blood pooling around their heads.
Using their sniper scopes, both Chianti and Korn confirmed the scene.
As seasoned killers, they could tell at a glance—both men were unquestionably dead.
"That guy… he just fell from what, ten stories up?"
Vodka swallowed hard.
A man falling from a ten-story building, directly onto the target…
Cointreau, the man supposedly mentally unstable, had just killed two people with that move?
Cointreau always liked to land his real kill after others had relaxed, thinking the worst had passed. Gin, who had always subscribed to a more direct philosophy—kill, then walk away—could never fully comprehend this twisted artistry.
But whether he understood it or not, he had to admit—
Cointreau: Mission accomplished.
Cointreau: Picture.jpg
Attached was an image of a short tumbler containing Cointreau, neat, over ice.
He slipped the phone into his coat pocket and looked around at his fellow assassins—Chianti had fallen completely silent. Even she had no words this time.
"Clean up the scene. We're pulling out."
"Huh? But the target's about to come out!"
"Cointreau's accident already made enough noise. If we start picking people off with sniper rifles on top of that, you think the cops won't swarm this place?"
Sure, if it came to it, Gin could spray down Tokyo Tower with an Osprey-mounted gatling gun, but today was not that day. He turned around and headed for the rooftop stairwell without giving Chianti a chance to object.
Vodka was the first to follow.
His boots echoed as he hurried down the steps, a strange fear gnawing at him—like the rooftop might give way at any moment, dragging him down with it.
Korn followed without a word.
Chianti, clicking her tongue in frustration, grudgingly packed up her rifle and trailed after them.
Hayashi Yoshiki noticed that Yoko Okino was getting a little tipsy.
She wasn't drunk enough to slur her words or act foolish, but her cheeks were bright pink, and her gaze was soft and unfocused.
"That's enough for tonight. Let's head back."
He held her hand as they exited the bar.
She was still clear-headed enough to walk normally.
The commercial street was nearly deserted at ten past ten. When they stepped into the cooler night air, Yoko Okino let him adjust her mask for her, watching him the whole time with quiet trust.
"You alright? Let's grab a taxi."
Just as he raised a hand, a taxi pulled up. He opened the door, helped her in, and gave the driver the address of her apartment.
The driver kept his hands steady on the wheel, and the car radio happened to be playing one of Yoko Okino's own songs.
Hayashi Yoshiki listened quietly, occasionally sneaking a glance at her.
Inside the dark cab, he couldn't tell if she was watching him back behind her sunglasses.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived.
"Can you get home alright in this state?"
"Still, let me walk you to your door."
"Okay. Thank you, Yoshiki-kun."
Some people become talkative after drinking, but Yoko Okino was not one of them.
As the elevator carried them up to her floor, she remained calm—her thoughts swirling quietly.
They arrived at her apartment door.
"Well then, Yoshiki-kun… I'll go in first?"
"Sure. But before that—won't you let me see your face one more time?"
She reached up, removing her sunglasses and mask to reveal her gentle, pretty face.
Hayashi Yoshiki suddenly leaned in.
Her gasp was cut short as his lips met hers.
Her breath smelled sweet—like oranges.
Then Hayashi Yoshiki straightened and pulled away with a smile.
Blushing, she lowered her eyes and nodded slightly.
Her voice was very soft.
"I think Yoshiki-kun is very manly."