My name is B. I’m twenty-two years old, and I have eighteen minutes to live. The sharp taste of tea lingered in the back of my throat. It was necessary—the poisoned cup of tea, an insurance to the man in the fox mask that guarantees we do not run away or live long enough to speak. Twenty minutes before the poison kicks in, twenty minutes to find a dead man. Come back, and you get another cup—much stronger and much darker. It cleans your body and burns the poison, or so they say.

I took another glance at the plastic cup in my hand. The name “Susan” was printed on the bottom, and below it, a photo of a woman: blonde, hair tied back, seeming to be in her late thirties, maybe forty, with full-rimmed glasses. A dark spot on her cheek right above where her lip curled as she smiled. She was my mark for the night; I must find her.

I pushed through a crowd of tourists, my eyes darting left and right, looking for anyone that resembled her as I made my way down the paved roads of the Dutch fort. The streets were packed more than usual, filled with tourists of all shapes, sizes, and colors bustling around vendors and food trucks, picking at delicacies. Scattered among them were sprinkles of local teenagers smoking cigarettes in alleyways and posing for photographs. A girl, blonde, but not her—too thin, too young. Sixteen minutes. I swung around a corner onto a long, wide street, washed in patches of bright yellow light streaming from shopfronts. People were pouring onto the street. “A celebration of cultural cuisines” was printed in bright red letters on the huge banner hanging overhead; a festival was being held, hence the unusual crowd. This seemed impossible, but I want it all to end. Two more jobs, that was the deal, and a case full of money to show my mother that I could make it as a man. I caught a glimpse of my reflection on a window: white-stained t-shirt, uncombed hair, and a light sweat hanging on my brow. I must find her. I let out a short breath of air and dove into the crowd.

I work for a man named Mr. X. I’ve never met him or seen him; all I know is he works for the man in the fox mask. I’m a spotter, and my instructions are simple: I get a name above a photo, and that’s it. Finding the mark is my job. Once they are found, I am to move in, stare for ten counts, drop the cup with the name, and walk away. An unusual situation for a boy to be in, to fight for his life by killing another. “I want this all to end,” I repeat to myself as I push through the sturdy crowd, looking for a girl with glasses.

People call me Mr. X. I enjoy jokes. I’m a funny man. I’m somewhat of a magician, I make people vanish, saw them in half, all sorts of tricks. But my greatest illusion that never fails to astound, never needing an encore is the work of my blades and guns, unseen and discrete, the look of horror before the screams, that’s what truly amuses me. “Some boiling water please, boy,” I gestured at the curly-haired boy standing by my table. He gave a slight nod with a confused look on his face and scurried off into the back. The night glowed softly under the moonlight, with a cool breeze combing through the streets of the fort. I looked out from the porch of the cafe.

Crowds of fat tourists were huddled around huts, gorging themselves on colored sweets and deep-fried breads. Would the little piggies screech if they knew that one among them would not make the night? The boy returned with a silver jug of boiling water and a glass, placing them on my table.I waited for him to leave, then pulled out a glass jar, a spoon, and a hip flask from the black leather satchel at my waist. The jar was half full of deep brown leaves of the finest black tea. I slipped the spoon into it, fished out a clump of leaves, and dropped it into the open flask. I poured the hot water down the opening and took a whiff of the rising smoke .The smell was different—something unusual in the leaves, perhaps. Or could it be the pill lying at the bottom of the flask, the one that swells your throat and suffocates your lungs? I felt a grin spreading across my face.

I saw the boy earlier, zipping and dodging through the crowd, his eyes frantic and bloodshot, sweat shining on his brow—a boy in white bringing death. It could be anyone with your name on a cup, chasing you to the end of the world to watch you die. It’s a chilling thought and a funny joke. I pulled the glass closer to make myself a cup of tea. Some pour the water before adding the leaves; my father was such a man. I grabbed the spoon lying on the table and slowly started stirring. A pattern of elephants was engraved on its side. My first dagger had a golden skull engraved at the end of its hilt. I still remember it, speckled with blood, almost smiling as it stood above my father’s chest, swaying with his dying breath. It was covered in too much blood when it got to my mother. I couldn’t see a smile, but I’m sure it did—it always got my jokes.

Tonight merely serves as a warning; there is more to come. The world would be a better place with one less journalist—a naive parasite disturbing the order, ignorant to the reality that there will always be hidden webs constructed to satiate the cravings of men. Dirty webs that hold society from dissolving into anarchy. Let tonight be a message for all the heroes: no one is safe. I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of the strong black tea. No one is safe; anyone can kill you.

Eight minutes. I’ve circled the main streets twice; each road looks the same, each blonde looks the same. My head pounding along my racing heart, sweat now dripping from my face. People are moving out of my way, giving looks of confusion and disgust. I turn right at the junction before me, which looks just like the one before. People in huts with pans and knives, spraying sauces on meats and laying breads on plates. Lines of people talking and laughing, holding plates of food, fill the street. I push through the mass, getting closer to the end of the street. My eyes are getting blurry. The poison? No, it can’t be, not yet. I move myself a few more steps and stop to catch my breath. I look to my left at a group of people seated under an awning in front of a restaurant, and there she is: blonde, her hair tied back and falling across her shoulder, the same rimmed glasses from the photo, the dark spot on her cheek, and the curl of her lips as she smiles at the little girl sitting across the table. I take a few steps closer to her; my heart pauses afraid to make a move. What should I do? Yes, count, I should count. ONE… TWO… I begin in my head. She is leaning back in her chair with a big smile on her face, pointing a phone at the little girl. Was that her daughter? No, no time to think, no time to care, I want my life back, I want to go home. FOUR… FIVE… She

places the phone on her table and gets up from her chair. No, no, don’t go, wher-. SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT. She walks through the door into the restaurant and disappears. I crumple the plastic cup in my hand and drop it on the ground. I spin my body around and begin to walk away. Just eight, it wasn’t ten, she left, does it really matter? My legs started moving on their own, carrying me away. My head is spinning, it wasn’t ten. I’m a dead man, the one job I had, I messed it up.

I took three more steps, each faster than the other, when I heard the screams. I turned my head around, and there she was, slumped face down on a table, patches of red dotting her blonde hair, blood pooling around her neck and streaming down her hands hanging from the sides of the table. The onlookers erupted in a cacophony of screams and began running from the scene. Panic rippled through the streets, and soon a rampage of terrified people were falling over each other, barging at the exits. I jumped into the crowd and started running. People were pushed and shoved out of the way as the screaming horde broke through the festive streets. I sprinted past a corner and down another street. I could see the exit, the brown walls of the Old Gate, bathed in the glow of streetlights opening into a side street that goes along the beach. I ran through the exit, slowing my pace. I didn’t know how much time I had left, all I knew was that I was still alive.

He must be here. I spun my body around, scanning for him. A few were still running up the road; most ran towards the Main Gate. This street was almost empty. A sudden flash of light fell on the road from the headlights of a black SUV parked across

from me, its engine running. The rear door glass slowly rolled down to reveal the silhouette of a man in a hat. I couldn’t make out his face. I stepped closer and noticed a huge grin on his face, the shadow of his hat covering his eyes. Sitting behind him was the man in the fox mask, his head turned away from me, looking directly ahead. “Would you like to join us for tea?” asked the man playfully, with a smile on his face. “Time’s almost up, son, drink up, here’s your chance.” He handed me a green flask through the window. I opened it up, raised it to my lips, and gulped down the bitter tea. The warmth washed through my mouth in a strong earthy taste, flowing down my parched throat. He reached again to grab the empty flask and pulled it inside. I heard the door unlock and his boots stepping onto the road. He was a tall, lanky man, with a slender face and sunken eyes; his skin was pale and shining in the moonlight. He was wearing a jacket over a shirt, all in black. His gloved hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me closer to him faster than I could react. “Your chance to make a difference,” he whispered as his lips morphed into a sinister grin.. He pulled out a knife from his satchel and pushed its handle into the palm of my hand tightening his grip around my fingers. He placed the palm of his other hand under my chin and pushed my face away, before I could pull away. He then let go. I stumbled backwards and dropped the knife. There was blood on my fingers. I looked down at the knife to see a sheen of dark red blood shining on the blade. It wasn’t my blood. I looked up at the man to see a devilish grin on his face. My neck suddenly began to tighten and I felt my tongue getting pulled into my throat. The muscles in my neck twitched and tensed as an icy cold pain shot up my throat towards the back of my head. I fell to my knees grabbing my throat with my hands. My heart pounded in a beat of horror when I felt my throat pulling together to close itself as I tried

to shout. It felt like a snake wrapped inside my neck pushing the air out my lungs. My eyes got dark as I collapsed to the ground making a desperate gasp for air. My hands felt theveinsinmyneckpulsingandthrobbingasIchoked.“Poorboy,couldn’tlivewith the guilt” he sneered walking closer to me. “They will call you a terrorist” he paused, “They will FEAR you” he said, throwing a plastic cup beside me on the ground. “You will teach them that none is forgiven and intruders are remembered, there will be more like you, insignificant strangers carrying the names of dead men, that will break their illusion of safety, truly terrify them”. He took one last glance at me and turned away, chuckling to himself. Then jumped back into the car slamming the door shut and drove off into the night leaving my shivering body on the side of the road. The plastic cup rolled towards my face and I could see faintly through my blurry eyes, printed on the bottom the name ‘SUSAN’ crossed off with a red line.

The sound of the SUV faded into the night, its tires screeching in the distance. I tried to get back up on my knees, but my legs gave way. I turned my shoulder to break the fall and landed face up on the gravel. A cool wind swept from the sea, the moon was veiled by a monstrous cloud, dark and evil, blotting out the few scattered stars in the night sky. Sirens blared in the distance, and I could hear men running. I rested my heavy head on the ground, my tongue yearning for a pinch of air. My eyes drifted into darkness, and my fingers went numb. The only thing I could feel was the haunting taste of tea.