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Gin clicks the lock behind him. As much as he wants it to be the other way around, the house is dark. At the exact same time last year, it was brightly illuminated and smelled of curry. He trudges inside, strips himself of the coat and hat, and sinks on the sofa. It feels painfully cold, unlike the time when a woman’s body had warmed the fabric. On this very sofa Sherry had waited for him and dozed off. He still remembers carrying her to the bedroom, her tired face lolling unawake on his chest.
He swipes a book from the low coffee table. It’s been picked up too often, not giving a single chance for dust to colonize on it. Applied Genetics; one of Sherry’s thinnest books in her lab. He stole it without her presence, and the other staff did not complain when they noticed it was him. He thought one day he could impress the scientist with some knowledge of RNA transcription.
But he never did.
Gin runs his thumb through the book’s fore edge. The papers flap past his thumb quickly, then stopping where they always do, on a page of mRNA Codon Table. He extracted the bookmark slotted near the spine. It’s never meant to be one; he kept the valuable photograph there in order of not misplacing it somewhere else.
It’s a picture of the very book’s owner. He’s in it too, sitting next to her in a bar, looking at each other in a fond trance.
Gin prides himself in being pragmatic about his feelings. He knew that forgiveness could never mend even a millimeter of the wound inflicted from each other’s betrayal, so they did not bother. And part of the fact that she’s gone is just his job that he had no power to turn down.
Being blinded by a woman isn’t his game - he tells himself it was only a momentary spark of physical attraction. Imminent, unanticipated. But the memories are causing him headaches. They taint his veins, set his lips and fist tense like they were when he watched her stumble defeatedly on dirty cement and as Vodka chained her.
He misses her.
Even within the dim interior, Gin detected her the moment the brown doors were pushed open. He had an excellent sight of a sniper; she had a captivating and delicately dominating presence. Those azure irises were confident as they sought his emeralds through the crowd, fixating a path to his table.
“Vodka, I just got a new phone,” Gin muttered, handing the device to his subordinate as his gaze glued to the incoming woman. “Format it for me.”
Tonight, Sherry wore a sharp pair of high heels and a maroon, low cut dress of a velvety material. Her hips swayed with every step as she emerged from the crowd, the yellowish-brown lighting sensual on her skin tone. Very stunning. It was a shame that her lovely female figure always hid beneath a lab coat, but not that she looked any less beautiful.
The bar was their go-to place when blessed with free time. Owned by one of the Organization’s members, it was the quiet and hole-in-the-wall location that he and Vodka much appreciated. And tonight, they have an extra member joining.
“Hello, boys.” Sherry greeted smoothly, sliding next to Gin as she casted her glass of Long Island on the table. Opposite of them, Vodka looked up from the phone to acknowledge her with a smile.
Her lips were neatly painted with dark red. It complemented her hair and the darker shade of the dress, and she had some makeup up on that made her blue eyes fierce.
“You look different tonight.” Gin remarked, sipping a glass of Jack Daniels.
Sherry smiled appreciatively. “It's just eyeliner, some blush and lipstick.” she said. When he didn’t show any facial features of comprehension, Sherry chuckled softly. “I mean, it’s not much of a difference, Gin. But I’m flattered that you’ve been paying attention to...my face.”
She was right, he had. Though even without all those things, Gin knew she was beautiful. Achingly.
He let out a small smirk of his own. “I have an observant personality. I’d watch out, if I were you.”
She took a long sip, and her face scrunched in sarcasm when she put the glass down. “I’m petrified.”
“We were wondering if you would bail on the last minute, Sherry. Compared to that lab of yours, this isn’t really your playground.”
“My, I’ve been to wilder places than this that you wouldn’t even know about, Gin.” she retorted. Her choice of drink is tame, but he was sure it was only a warm up. “Nightclubs, stripclubs. You name it.”
“That I don’t know about?” his eyebrows quirked up. “Perhaps you’ve underestimated my experiences. Right, Vodka?”
His name called out, Vodka stuttered and pretended he didn’t hear the display of friendly banter that the rumoured couple in front of him presented.
“Yeah, aniki’s been to many places.” he agreed nonchalantly anyway, and deliberately busied himself with Gin’s phone.
Through his shades, he saw Gin whispering over Sherry’s ear. It elicited a mischievous smile from the scientist, and she curled her arms around Gin’s neck, leaning up to his body like a cat to murmur a reply. It was Gin’s turn to smirk then, wide, his eyes softened in the presence of the woman but cunning. Sweat started to jump out of Vodka’s skin. There was a very limited number of women who dared to do that, and much less without obtaining some consequences.
It was difficult to focus on the phone. Part of him swore that they were secretly enjoying his fluster that he himself knew was unlike his rather intimidating build. How sadistic.
Vodka took a deep breath. “Aniki, I’ve installed some contacts in.” he lifted his head up “it’s d-” and the phone slipped in his grip like wet soap. There was a click of a shutter as he tried to catch it with sweaty palms, and then more, before the device clattered on the dark mahogany surface.
He and Gin were not personally close, but throughout his whole life knowing Aniki he had never seen him being so forthright with a woman to the point of smooching in public. Sherry was palpating the lapels on his chest as they broke the kiss, and Gin seemed to make no intention to stop her, his own hands around the scientist’s waist.
It was a lingering kiss. Long and sweet, that his eyes widened behind the shades in disbelief and his hands frozen mid-air. The one that definitely wasn’t feigned.
Gin shot him a plain look, then smirked knowing what he had just seen. “What is it, Vodka?”
He clumsily picked up the device from the table. “No-nothing, aniki. The formatting is done.” he handed it to Gin, who curtly thanked his subordinate.
They drank until the night ripened and the crowd thinned. Nights like these were serene despite the life of crimes that they lived. Of gunpowder, remorseless murders, and not knowing if the next second you will live or not.
Holding Sherry felt like the opposite.
Days, weeks and months crawl excruciatingly. Of vomiting heavy gasps as he shoots up in bed soaked in sweat, vigorously panting like a soldier in war. Nightmares are nothing new, only this time Sherry isn’t there to hush him back to sleep.
Work has become dull and routinely mundane. Of smoking at the headquarter’s second floor outdoor walkway while the wind caresses his cheek. Only this time Sherry isn’t there to accompany him with her undisputable sarcasm.
Of driving back after a mission, only this time when he glances in the rear view mirror there are only cars and grey tar. No auburn hair, no brilliant blues that often secretly flickered back at him, thinking he didn’t notice. None of that, no matter how hard he wishes they are.
Maybe that’s why after a mission follow up in a murky port where his comrades had evacuated from, Gin doesn’t leave after them as per usual. He’s in the Porsche, parked at the edge of the port overlooking a tangerine sunset and a red bridge over the calm waves.
The rest are long gone, probably getting dinner, and even the birds are navigating home.
“Aniki?” Vodka queries from the passenger seat. “Why are we here? Shouldn’t we head back in case anyone saw us?”
“Nobody saw us.” he replies coldly.
Gin fetches his lighter from the depths of his coat. Desperate for nicotine, tobacco, anything that can ease this turmoil. As his thumb flicks down the coarse metal, the spark cackles. Again and again and again, but in the end no flame comes out. He grunts in defeat.
Vodka pushes the vehicle’s lighter socket to help. While waiting for it to heat up, he shoots his moody superior a bewildered look. He could have just used the automobile’s lighter from the start like he always does, but it’s best not to mention it. For good measure.
When it springs ready, Gin snatches it himself. He takes a worryingly violent inhale and his jaw is tense when dense grey smoke swirls around the classic interior.
Before Vodka can press the power window button, Gin exits the car and Vodka stops, puzzled. He strolls towards the water and stands way too close on the concrete’s edge just to watch the view, which heightens Vodka’s worries.
He approaches hesitantly. “Aniki...what’s wrong?”
The sky is a carpet of scarlet, rust and bronze, that paints a similar glow on their jet black uniform. The wind sends the silver hair curling lazily behind Gin’s back, and the port smells slightly like the sea. It would be a breathtaking sight only if his heartstrings aren’t being pulled. Gin’s stares emptily into the fading sun; broody like always, but the vibe far from any of what Vodka has experienced.
“Give me your lighter.” Gin demands. His tone is throaty, like it hurts to say it.
“But you’re still smokin-”
“Give me.”
Vodka abides, and takes the offered lit cigarette from his partner. It’s not a good sign, but he doesn’t know why; the mission went as planned, the follow up was clear, and tomorrow would be an off day as a reward from the boss. What went wrong?
Gin snatches lighter from his subordinate without sparing a glance to him. Meeting his gaze even through the shades would be unwise. He can’t let Vodka see - can’t let him witness the evident betrayal in his eyes if he does so. Even if he’s a trusted partner…this conflict that Gin has would be disastrous to his uncompromisable loyalty to the syndicate.
With the lighter in his left hand, he brings out a photograph from his pocket with his right. The edges are crumpled white, so is a horizontal line in the middle of it from being folded and unfolded multiple times. Too many times that he’s afraid it’s going to tear by itself.
The organization despises photographs. Cameras are to be avoided like the plague, especially public CCTVs. Social media are only of faked profiles, and the only proper photographs of them are in the database.
Yet Gin’s trembling fingers are holding a picture of two organization members. It’s a blurry one thanks to his subordinate, but anyone can make out that they are staring tenderly into each other. They were smiling, but he dies a little bit everytime he folds this picture open. There was nothing left, as if this is a lost historical evidence, yet the picture contains everything .
The memories flood his system like a bouldered dam. Sherry’s witty remarks, the delicate but intelligent visage, the unique auburn hair that framed it, the way she made him earn her love and trust. The woman was born for science. Her passion, the lab...the tears of anguish streaming down her face as she knelt and clawed tooth and nail on his legs desperate for an explanation for-
The basement.
Sherry.
Traitor.
Sherry betrayed the organization.
She betrayed him.
It feels like an icy stab to his heart. And now he doesn’t have any; not even one to kill her. Something he’d done since youth but never could imagine he would have troubles with it.
He lifts the lighter, and Gin, for once, breaks at the seams. He prays to the universe that Vodka’s lighter is broken too, but it coughs out a fire. He let the innocent flame lick the corner of the paper. Millimeters by millimeters of memories it consumes, erases, exiles.
The flame circles around them, as if generously giving him the final goodbye. Goodbye to that night, to that kiss that he earned. To Sherry, before it devours the whole thing into ashes.
“Aniki!! What do you think you’re doing!?” Vodka comes suddenly, shoving his arm that’s holding the remains of the picture. Oh, it seems that the fire had burnt his thumb.
“It’s nothing, Vodka...Don’t you worry.” he comforts like an older brother.
The fire scorches the pad of his thumb and half of his nail. It stings, but it doesn’t burn as much as the thought of Sherry.
“You’re too spent. Let’s head back to my place and I’ll get something nice to eat.”
Vodka experimentally grabs his shoulders to face him. Gin looks defeated, his head hanging low, unlike his usual self. His hands fall limp at his sides from the contact. The lighter escapes his fingers, bounces off the cement and plops unceremoniously into the water. Neither he nor Vodka cared.
He weeps.
One tear drifts down his cheekbone. Then another. And another and another, gradually increasing in number until Vodka lost count.
There are no words to explain as Vodka silently watches him grieve. As the sun witnesses him crumbling into pieces as it dies down too. He feels torn like never before, ripped apart by vultures of reality picking his flesh to the bones.
Gin shuts his drenched eyelids. He sees Sherry’s face carved behind them, and he grits his teeth forcibly.
The tears stop manufacturing when Vodka pats his back. But the pain never subsides.