It feels...strange, being alone in the city. He's there without family and his friends have just left him after moving the few possessions he owns to a tiny apartment. Now he sits on a lumpy couch and stares at a blank piece of paper in the typewriter wondering if this was really the right choice to make.
--
He sets his index fingers to the keys, laboriously punching out a word, then two, then three. It's apparent that English is not his first language, but his stilted grammar lends a weight of honesty to his writing. Sunlight is just beginning to streak its way through the blinds of the apartment when he leans back in his chair, his work completed. He mops his sweat-soaked brow with a handkerchief and scans the contents of the page. "Dear Sophia," it begins.
--
"Dear Sophia,
I miss you. Life is hard here, but I would not have it any other way. When I can, I will send for you and Mama and the little ones.
I have made friends here. There is a community here of other writers and they have offered to help me find a job. I can only hope that it will give enough money.
Sophia, you would love it here. No, you WILL love it here. It is bigger than the village, much bigger, but it feels tighter. More people. I know how you love people. They would love you. Adore you, just as your other brothers and I do. The others cannot wait to meet you. There is nothing this city does not have, I am sure of it.
Send my regards to Emil. I am pleasantly awaiting his departure."
--
The man releases the paper from the typewriter, folds it quickly, and places it on his desk atop a neat stack of similar papers. He rises and crosses the short distance to his bed. Dust scatters around him as he pulls a steel box from under the bed frame. He gives the box a shake, hears the reassuring clash of metal on metal, and smiles. "Soon," he whispers, "but not today." He fingers the edges of the box lovingly before giving the padlock a sharp pull. It's locked tight. Satisfied, he returns the box to its hiding place and begins his usual morning routine.
--
He lights the first cigarette of the day and puts the kettle on. As he waits for it to start boiling, he hangs by the window. Out in the city under him, people are already rushing to work at various businesses and stores, and children are waiting for the bus to bring them to school. It's such a different world from what he's used to that at some points he wonders if this is even the same world. Even still, he smiles at the bustle and goes to turn the heat off from the kettle when it starts whistling.
--
When the whistling stops, he raises the kettle's nozzle to his lips and swallows its contents in several loud gulps. Steam rises from his mouth, though he makes no visible reaction to the extremely high temperature of the beverage. He opens the fridge and removes a carton of eggs from the door. He takes an egg between his thumb and forefinger, examining it for a few moments before popping it into his mouth. His jaw works in a sharp up and down motion, crunching the egg between his back teeth. With his meal now complete, he pulls out his pocket watch and frowns at the time. He's going to be late.
--
Our lone protagonist, walking out of his lowlit spartan apartment, arrives at the snowy steps of his neighborhood, paying no attention to any other signs of life surrounding him. He commences his walking, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, his fedora angled downwards to prevent any accidental eye-contact, and pretending that the icy temperatures and bitter winds had any degree of effect on him; after all, he didn't want to draw attention to himself. With every breath, the warm, wispy fog which came out of his mouth only reminds him of his cravings for another cigarette, much needed for the new contract given to him by his mysterious employer wasn't exactly a job that can be pulled off in just a single day's work. His hand tightens around the grip of his SIG P226; he looks up. He's arrived at an unoccupied, parked vehicle. Nobody around as witnesses. Perfect. He reaches into his other pocket and takes out his crowbar.
--
He sizes up the car. It's an old one, pretty beaten-up already. He looks at the license plate, then opens his pocket watch again, confirming the number. It's the car. Glancing around one more time for observers, he angles the crowbar against the trunk lid and leans on it. A cracking sound tells him the latch has given up, and he opens the trunk. Here it is.
--
Perched there as if the result of a particularly unfortunate outcome of an anatomical game of Consequences, a stack of shifting, non-Euclidean angles stood guard, furling and unfurling in ways that would instantly break those possessing poorer states of dentition, smiling winsomely back at him with all of its hyperbolic paraboloids; the nature of space-time slowly coming into focus around it. Used to such occurrences by this stage in his dealings with the bastardised summonings of lesser occultists, he slid through the obligatory phase of existential horror with the humourless gravitas of an Old Testament prophet challenged to a magical duel by a children's conjurer, proceeding directly to dispatch this lesser gimlet demon with some quickly-scrawled sigils and a choice curse in a language eight thousand years dead. After all, a corpse can hardly exchange scuttlebutt and gossip. Brushing the residual conjuration out of the way into the still-visible Minkowski space, he could see beneath where the demon had once sat -- a box engraved with 'MEMENTO MORI.'
--
But that was merely a memory. He had lost possession of the box some time ago, to the great displeasure of his employer. But now here it is: a small pine box bearing the same inscription. He picks it up and places it deep in the pocket of his trench coat, then stomps back to his apartment. He places the box on his desk next to the stack of lies he wrote and rewrote with the intention of sending to Sophia. He hasn't mailed her a letter in two months. He had been relentlessly pursued by his employer in the days following the loss of the box, and as Sophia was unaware of his occupation (or even his true nature) he had been forced to move in order to keep her safe. His shame grew with every day. He thinks perhaps now, with the box firmly in his possession, he can begin to make things right. He picks up his phone and dials a number.
--
The phone rings for God knows how long. Frustrated with the absence of an answer, Costello abandons his desire to converse with his Sophia. He hadn't talked to her for years and his completion of his last contract, that of eliminating Sophia's father, the leader of the satanic political party the "RAWPasté Dátà," burned in his mind and conscious. Since then he adopted the way of the Knights Templar and bore the cross of honor across his chest ever since; or, was it the law of bushido, the way of the samurai? Didn't matter. Costello leaves his apartment once again, this carrying the enigmatic box with him. He arrives at his neighbor's door and kicks the door down, pulling out his fully-loaded SIG P226.