That was his purpose, to kill him. There was no other objective, that was his mission, that was the reason why he had been thrown into that dimension. He had nothing to do but pretend a little, take out his acting skills that led him year after year in the endless experience and, finally, fulfill his task at all costs. Sometimes it took years, because how else would he perfect his technique? The Error Correction and Time Travel Complex had only one order in mind and that was to finish the problem before the deadline, the day of the accident, attack, whatever was going to happen, having the option of approaching a few years before to monitor the perimeter slowly finishing off the target or assassinating him minutes before the event, leaving him as a suspicious death, just like it happened with the American president whose name he didn’t remember, back in the sixties. In any case, the point was to generate an intimacy with it, deep enough to be able to act, having some other detail of it from research done by those behind the desk.

Usually it was simple, easy. Hound was the intern who had completed the most missions, with a record of 353 perfect kills, without a sign of his presence, without altering the timeline to which he was sent from the beginning. He used to fit well with the names he was asked to take, Walter, Phillip, Albert... But, his favorite, the name he usually chose was Naib Subedar, which reminded him of his home, his past before he was recruited. Like a loyal hound to the complex, he attended all the meetings, all the points in common, seeing lives go by, die, change... Not everyone reached the number of missions he had, not because they were inept or incapable, but because everyone found something to cling to, a place to stay, a “home”. He used to share a lot with Nidhogg before she decided to just leave like everyone else to a timeline where nothing bothered her, where she could end her days in peace under a name and an identity that she felt comfortable with. He was the only asset in his litter, so he was sometimes called to meetings, events where new recruits would come and listen. His life had that monotonous, boring, a routine... And, like every year, a heavy mission fell on his shoulders, with enough careful indications when it came to being fulfilled.

That's why he was at that time, in that year, four before the Tragedy of Steam City was executed, reading the list of tasks for the last time to tear it to pieces and throw it in a container, on his way to a building, staring at it , looking up, noting the number of floors. That's where his target worked, looking for a new assistant, someone to take care of him. According to the informants with whom he had spoken, it’s in that building, in one of the few job interviews, where the head of the M.M company would hire a young, good-looking intern with similar characteristics, named Spring. Together, they would become close enough for the company's fate to change its initials to M&S, and eventually together they would bring about the complete destruction of the city through an intentional facility failure, killing thousands of people, proceeding to flee as soon as possible.

The premise sounded like a typical story, a kind of Bonnie and Clyde, although far from robbing banks, they would take care of taking the lives of innocents to disappear into nothingness and resume that work constantly, because they were crazy, sick... And their job was that instead of Spring being hired, they would hire him, to partially change the timeline and assassinate the boss long before they ever met again. Because yes, even if several inmates had already tried to turn the tables, the fact that the two of them crossed paths was inevitable, all to do illicit things, so that it even seemed unbelievable that in all possible lines, they would always cross paths. 

Hound sighed, after communicating with the receptionist, who told him that the interview would be on the top floor, taking advantage of the solitude to think in peace about everything that was reported. There was mention in the files about a supposed clandestine band of time travelers and that didn't surprise him; On several occasions, the sabotage between events that changed the world, decisions so light and simple that they changed the destiny of the world as such, was clearly noticeable. Even temporary anomalies, all of that was quite important and needed to be highlighted, after all, how could they do their job properly if they were in danger of being killed by some peers? But the Complex didn’t care about its workers and, on the contrary, they proposed to just continue the work, leaving the high-ranking ones to take care of such matters. Even Nidhogg had been honest with him by confessing that she had long ago seen strange movements in the numbers when she was still working, having to push such thoughts out of his head when he heard the slight "ding" in the elevator bell.

As he crossed the threshold, another receptionist greeted him with a smile. This one was different from the previous one, much shorter and with Asian features, quite serious. Not friendly at all in contrast to the woman downstairs.

"Mr. Campbell will interview you today" she announced, after reviewing her files. She wasn't surprised by that, but she acted like she was, nodding.

Pretending was another thing that was very characteristic of his job, which he did very well. To travel through time, theater classes began to have strength, along with imitation, art, history... With something so simple, all the branches of exact and non-exact sciences proceeded to converge, in a completely new, diverse, strange... Hound had a way with this, so much to manipulating his face and pretending to be normal made him look so fresh and deserving of all that glory and success. It is then that he soon crossed the door, seeing a man inside looking out, playing with a ball, turning to look at the chestnut. He certainly looked giggly, amused, as if he were the first interviewee that day, but judging by the number of people on the receptionist's list, he was sure he wasn't.

"Wow, this is the first time someone has opened the door without knocking for an interview," he laughed, almost having a very jovial air and vibe, even if the age tab suggested about thirty. Eventually he feigned submission, embarrassment, looking down, like a dog scolded for having made a mistake, as it was part of the plan, because according to the records, Spring did the same thing, which marked some charisma in the boss.

"I… Excuse me, sir" he lamented, clearing his throat, hearing him sigh.

"There's nothing to apologize for" he maintained completely calmly, looking up, seeing those dark eyes twinkle, as if fate had been sealed. He believed it was on his side, but he was too early to point out that he was wrong. Please, “have a seat.”

The interview went as planned, so much that by the time he left, it was already halfway through the morning, turning the corner, watching Spring get out of a cab. But it was no surprise to Hound to learn that, in fact, the inconveniences he put in his way caused a serious delay, so that for his arrival, the interviews were closed until the next internship.

I

The first months in his job didn’t have any kind of progress, other than joining and following a role already stipulated by the council. He made friends, having a certain closeness with a woman similar to Nidhogg but very different in too many aspects, it even generated the occasional trace of nostalgia in her chest. His boss still didn't show interest, so his reports to the Complex were only about his behavior, subtle and normal, nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until a year had passed since his hiring that he required a more considerable advance, being invited by his boss for a beer, which he didn’t reject and accepted without complaining at all.

Almost in the middle of that same year, in July, for a festival, the relationship between the two was much deeper and closer than just friendship. Part of Hound himself was conflicted, for while he was a fine actor and his grades at the Complex Academy were a hundred out of a hundred, there was a new and different trait within him that he had never experienced before, at least not until those chocolate eyes were fixed on him, at that holiday fair. It was then that formalizing became inevitable, concluding their night with a kiss, a dead mark that the Complex congratulated, sending him more gifts to provide to his boss, that man with the golden fang. They still have another year and a half to finish him off, for which he reported needing more time, because "Mr. Mole was a very suspicious and closed man, difficult to convince to suggest living together." Which, without a doubt, was a lie, a fallacy that not even the Hound himself realized he was committing. He didn't say it, but he wanted to stay, forgetting one of the most important bases of his work in relation to the victims.

He wasn't seeing it, but fake love, in the long run, was structuring itself beyond its limits... And just as he felt in the air when his kisses outlined the figure of his waist and hips, his mission would only make him fall, crashing thousands and thousands of meters down without a parachute.

II

With only six months to go before the exact moment of the meeting between Spring and Mole, a formal communication from the Complex surprised him one morning, on his way to a local bakery, where he was going to prepare breakfast for his lover. This announced that the future had changed, with how much the mission was being delayed, so he was required to finish the objective as soon as possible, because in just fifteen days, Mole and Spring would meet in a local bar, as researched by the chief visionary, Mr. White. Just reading that name, he swallowed hard as a shiver traced a trail down his back, knowing that if Mr. White had gotten involved in the case, it meant that they already knew everything he had been doing to extend his stay, so, in shock, he just stared at the envelope, getting rid of the paper just like the first time he was there, in that dimension so far away from his. It was then that he knew, he had no other choice... He just had to complete his work as the Council had ordered him, discovering how miserable he was... However, what else could he do? All he was doing was prolonging something that, like it or not, was going to happen anyway.

He remembered that day perfectly, so fixed in his memory, stopping to think about it in his future now (something very funny considering the number of trips he himself made), placing a thought and a complex notion that didn’t leave to break him down emotionally. The newscast gave the indications for that weekend, where both were on vacation, in the country house that he convinced Mole to buy a long time ago, to complete his goal. It was hot, so Norton was sitting in the living room, windows open, lights off, drinking a glass of whiskey on ice, which had melted. His clothes were only a white sleeveless shirt, with only his boxers, because in the morning they had done it, feeling that scent of sex still fresh on his skin, while humming a song that he knew was his favorite.

Cautiously, he approached him from behind, as he was sitting in his favorite chair, an extravagance, like everything he owned. He already had in his pocket the suicide letter as he had planned to write after copying his handwriting, along with his memorized alibi, as well as other data, but he didn't show it and instead just hugged him dangerously from behind, hearing him laugh, The dark-haired man gave him a fixed look with those chocolate eyes, which tickled his stomach.

"How cute you look from down here," said Mole, smiling, caressing his hands, kissing them. The sweet way in which he touched the skin of his hands from his lips only caused him to feel an extreme calm, the same before the storm. His silence in response made him worry, seeing him frown. “Everything okay, honey? Something happens?”

"I… I'm fine," he lied, to which Mole responded by rolling his eyes, pulling his arm around to make him spin, sitting him on his legs.

"Oh come on, what do you take me for, Naibu?" He replied, shaking his head. “You talk to me as if we met yesterday, what’s the matter, is something wrong? You seem to want to tell me something.”

He wasn’t able to use the words, he simply hugged him in silence, being reciprocated by his lover who didn’t stop telling him that everything would be fine, not knowing that this act was to take his gun out of hiding behind the chair, putting the gun barrel on his head as soon as he stepped away from him, turning pale as he heard the safety snap off. Even the sound of the television sounded distant by now, watching his pupils contract, receiving those deer eyes in his direction, with his hands on his thigh.

"Oh… Naib, I…" He cleared his throat, trying to find the words, swallowing hard. “Okay, okay, I… Wow, this is new and…”

"Could you just shut up?" the chestnut haired roared, frowning. “I'm… just sick of pretending that this wasn't the purpose of being with you, that all these years weren't just to seek… to kill you. So please don't even think of looking at me like that, I don't want you to, do you understand me?”

The pause and silence took over everything. Everything happened as slowly and as quickly as his heart at that moment, which marked the rhythm of the song that his head had. He couldn't forget it, nor the sweat on his forehead and hands, nor the sweat from the glass that melted next to them. Much less would he forget how Mole's hand, the one that affectionately caressed him now, traveled gently towards the weapon, which trembled, as he used to do in his first years of service. He was still very calm, as if he didn't mind dying, calming his expressions, taking his other hand, sighing carefully and then smiling at him with some bitterness.

"There's nothing I can do to stop you," Mole said, licking his lips, not taking his eyes off the brunette. “But at least… Could I have a few last words?”

That took him by surprise, causing him anger, rage. How did that man have the nerve to act like nothing happened, when the so-called love of his life was about to end his existence at that moment? He was ready to yell at him, to tell him a thousand things from the poison of his soul, but the same confusion he had with him from the beginning made him stumble, causing something very different to come out of his mouth.

"Go ahead, talk before I regret it." And there they came, the words and images that he would never forget, not even if a million years passed, the ones that would accompany him every night before going to sleep and every morning when he woke up, at any time, in any place, always, during the rest of his miserable life.

"I always knew that one day you would kill me," he said boldly, caressing his opposite hand, moving his fingers lightly through his, entwining his hand with his. “I was sure, it's not the first time I've met a hit man like you, sent by the Complex, but… You know? I'm tired of just running away, lying, pretending... I decided to retire and wait for someone insightful to be sent to me, someone capable of really ending me... And I ended up meeting someone who gave me love before dying, just what I needed before ending my miserable life... And I'm really thankful that someone was someone like you.”

What happened next, was so fast that in his memories there are only parts that the shock kept in his head. Mole's thick fingers pushed on the trigger that Hound was hesitant, in all his years of experience, to pull. His smile was the only ghost that had remained on his face, while the bullet went through all of it, staining everything, even the glass of whiskey that they had on one side, on that mahogany table, completely ending his existence in this world. , in front of your eyes. A wonderful man was dead in front of him and he just stayed silent, watching his whole body lose any strength, leaving his head speechless, with a beeping that deafened him to the point of giving him the feeling that the world had stopped for just a second. And yes, that happened, because even if in the future he was just a criminal, that criminal was also the only person who in all these years had melted his hard and cold heart. And now, dead there, on a sofa that he bought on a whim, one that had stories about the two of them, about various things they did on it, there lay his precious body, destroying his psyche completely. And for his whole life.

III

It wasn't hard for him to perform during the funeral, let alone hold on to his made-up alibi, after clearing his DNA from him. Pretending that Norton had depression wasn’t difficult, he was a powerful man, without friends, that the only thing he had was his secretary, a man who loved him and with whom he had plans to marry, according to some rumors, who mourned the loss of Hound, telling him that they would give him their full support. But all those people were just strangers, people who didn't matter, because his work there would be done and only in a few months he would have to return to his dimension, to the Complex. Only this time, with his 354 missions completed, he would retire once and for all... And he would spend his days isolated on some island, to die and, perhaps, meet again for that love he once lost, that criminal who in a short time managed to show more traits in him than anyone else in his entire life.

There was only pity, pain and depression in his wounded heart. And he didn't need any more of that shit, ever. The Complex could shove its missions up its ass, because he would never come back… Never again.