Have I ever asked who they are? What they did to justify a bullet through their forehead or a knife in the back? Yes.

Have I cared? No.

When it comes down to it, it doesn’t really matter who they are or what the hell they did to piss off someone rich enough to hire me. What matters is that I have a client that is paying me good money to see them dead. Worrying about the little unnecessary details mucks everything up, makes things more complicated than they need to be. Black and white turns to shades of gray, and the lines start to get a little blurry. And then you start having doubts. Should I really do it? Does he deserve it? You might say that those doubts make me human. It’s bullshit. It’s just bad for business. I did it a couple times, in my early days. Almost got me killed.

Not anymore. Now everything is simple. Get in, pull the trigger, get out. Quick and clean. No partners to get in my way; no emotions to stay my hand. And at the end of each job is a very, very large paycheck—trimmed in gold leaf, if you please, thank you very much.
I get the job done. I don’t ask unnecessary questions; don’t poke my nose in my clients’ business. I get the contract, shadow the target, pick the location, execute, get out, get paid. Simple, cold, surgical, and with no trail to follow. It works. I’ve got myself a little reputation in certain circles, a good one at that. It guarantees me a fat paycheck at the end of every job. It also guarantees me a lot of bullshit. The police know about me, of course. They think that some undercover asshole acting as a false buyer can lure me into one of their little traps. They underestimate me every time, and they pay for it every time. It’s hard to report back to your superior officer when you and everyone else directly involved in your little James Bond spook shop is dead.

That’s why he hired me. Some Japanese corporate bigwig. He knew that I could get rid of his problem without leaving a trail. A business partner of his, Daisuke Watanabe, thought that it would be a good idea to cheat my client out of a major business deal. He thought wrong.
The note had already been written, created by a master forger of my client’s employ. The instrument had been selected, a hand-stamped tanto with a gold-plated guard and scabbard, a blood groove accentuating the flawlessly crafted ten-inch blade. It was the kind of blade that a rich fucker like Watanabe would be expected to display at his home. I carefully review the information my client has provided. Daisuke Watanabe is an old son-of-a-bitch; he just broke year 83 a few months ago. Born and raised in pre-war Japan to a very well-to-do family. Educated by the finest teachers that that era had to offer, taught the values and ethics of family and personal honor. Personal background is perfect for the proper execution of the contract. After all, my client has specially requested a very unusual method of assassination