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Okinawa, a certain bar.
Gin sat alone in a dim corner. The ashtray on the table was piled high with cigarette butts, a half-finished cocktail beside it.
Recently, the organization had been hit hard. One undercover agent after another had been exposed, putting him in a foul mood.
After a period of investigation, most of them had been dealt with.
As for whether they were completely wiped out, Gin couldn't guarantee it.
Aside from Vodka, Chianti, and Korn at his side, any of the remaining members could be an undercover agent sent by some country.
Even Vermouth.
"Boss, the exposed rats left include Akai Shuichi. Who should we send to deal with him?"
Vodka carefully went over the list again. Now only the toughest one remained: Akai Shuichi.
With the protection of the American FBI, taking him out was far from easy.
"No rush. When the time is right, I'll handle it personally."
Gin lit another cigarette, Akai Shuichi's image flashing through his mind.
The man known as the Silver Bullet. No one knew better than Gin how strong he was.
Long-range sniping, close-quarters combat, intelligence, adaptability. He was top-tier in every aspect.
A pity he was an FBI undercover agent. With a little grooming, he could have been a formidable asset to the organization.
Against someone like that, Gin didn't trust anyone else. He had to do it himself.
"Boss, are we really staying in Okinawa for three days waiting for that guy?"
"What do you think?"
"Boss, you've thought this through. If he can't finish the job, staying in Okinawa means we can clean up after him right away."
Vodka didn't have much confidence in Steven.
Having the guts to blow up the Tokyo Metropolitan Police building didn't necessarily mean he was suited to being an assassin.
Thud!
A round object wrapped in a bedsheet slammed onto the table, cutting off their conversation. A dark red liquid seeped out faintly.
With Gin's short fuse, this was something he absolutely wouldn't tolerate.
Before he could react, Steven dropped into the chair beside him.
"A real man drinks the strongest liquor and rides the wildest horse. Cocktails are bland and boring. What's the point?"
"Bartender, bring me a glass of Erguotou. Or Laobaigan, that works too."
Liquor was still best when it came from China.
Steven couldn't get used to foreign alcohol. It always felt like something was missing, a certain warmth, a certain soul.
"Sorry, we don't have that."
"What kind of trash bar doesn't even stock Erguotou? That's just embarrassing."
Steven rolled his eyes and complained. The bartender could only spread his hands helplessly.
"Got absinthe? I'll take a glass."
If he couldn't drink Chinese liquor, he might as well try an old acquaintance.
Absinthe was Vermouth's codename in the Organization.
"What is this supposed to mean?"
Gin's eyes darkened as he stared at the object Steven had tossed onto the table. His voice dropped to an icy whisper.
If this were anyone else, he'd already have a gun pressed to their forehead.
"A little surprise for you. Why don't you open it?"
Steven kept him in suspense.
"Sir, your absinthe."
The bartender set down the glass, his gaze drifting to the round bundle on the table. A faint metallic stench of blood lingered in the air.
Gin lifted his head and shot him a vicious look. The bartender's spine went cold, and he hurried away without another word.
Taking the hint, Vodka carefully unwrapped the sheet.
Inside was Jo Murakami's head.
The face was turned perfectly toward Gin, eyes bulging wide, dead and glassy, like a fish pulled from the water. It looked as though Jo Murakami had died full of resentment, ready to return as a vengeful ghost.
"What are you trying to say?"
Gin's pupils shrank as he asked coldly.
Even for someone who killed without blinking, the sudden sight of Jo Murakami's severed head still sent a jolt through him.
When the Organization executed traitors or targets marked for death, it was always quick. One bullet, clean and final. They never went as far as chopping off someone's head.
"Didn't you tell me to handle it cleanly?" Steven said casually. "So I brought his head back. Saves you the trouble of wondering whether he's really dead."
"Bartender, another absinthe."
Calm as ever, Steven flicked open his lighter and lit a cigarette.
"Are you trying to make a statement?" Gin laughed softly, a sound that carried danger.
"Misunderstanding," Steven said. "I was just worried I wouldn't be able to prove I finished the job. What if you denied it? I can't exactly squeeze you flat or roll you round. That'd be a lot of work for nothing."
"What I brought back isn't a head. It's proof."
He tapped ash from his cigarette, his tone carrying a hint of provocation.
Even if it was a show of force, so what?
With the system's full-resurrection ability, even if he couldn't win head-on against the Organization, he had more than enough time to grind Gin and the rest of the elites down.
"The Organization has dedicated intelligence personnel," Gin said flatly. "They verify mission completion. You won't need to bring back evidence in the future."
On the surface, he remained composed. Inside, his anger was shooting through the roof.
"My fault?" Steven pouted, looking downright aggrieved. "You didn't explain it clearly when you gave me the job."
Infuriating someone without consequences was practically a talent.
Gin's blood pressure spiked. He wanted nothing more than to put a bullet through Steven's head and send him to join Jo Murakami.
"Boss," Vodka cut in quickly, sensing the tension, "Steven's new. It's understandable if he doesn't know all the rules yet."
Gin shot Vodka a look. "Take care of Jo Murakami's head."
Leaving it around would be handing evidence straight to the Japanese police. It had to be disposed of properly.
This kind of technical cleanup was best left to an experienced hand.
"Yes, Boss."
Vodka wrapped the head back up and carried it out of the bar.
"Congratulations on passing the test," Gin said. "From now on, you're an elite member of the Organization and will receive the benefits that come with it."
"Elite members go by codenames. Yours will be "Cocktail.""
His gaze fell on the half-glass of cocktail sitting in front of him.
Holy hell.
Was this how the Organization picked codenames? Whatever drink happened to be in front of Gin at the moment?
If some poor bastard joined while Gin was drinking that Mianyang 'horse semen' liquor, would his codename end up being 'Semen'?
Steven complained inwardly, deeply resistant to Gin making the decision for him.
"'Cocktail' doesn't sound great," he said. "Feels… off."
"Fine. Pick one yourself."
Gin frowned slightly. There weren't many people in the Organization who dared to push back against him.
But Steven was someone Gin had personally recruited. No matter how irritated he was, he had to swallow it for now. He wasn't about to let his subordinates laugh at his poor judgment.
"How do you ease your worries? Only Dukang," Steven said with a grin. "I'll be Dukang."
"Dukang?" Gin looked skeptical. "That sounds more like a Chinese name than a liquor."
"In ancient China, there was a man named Dukang," Steven explained smoothly. "Back in the Xia Dynasty, he pioneered the technique of brewing clear liquor using sticky sorghum."
"Later generations named the wine Dukang to honor his contribution."
Seeing that Gin knew nothing about Chinese liquor history, Steven took the opportunity to confidently spin his story.
If you don't believe me, look it up.
He wasn't worried. His explanation was mostly true, with just enough embellishment to pass.
Choosing Dukang as his codename was also a statement of ambition.
"....."