When a Hitman Gets Haunted by a Ghost
Chapter 37: Last Strike

Chapter 37: Last Strike

"Understand this, friends," Jones said, his eyes glinting like a fox’s, "I won’t chase after you to play guessing games. If you’re itching for trouble, be my guest. But do it outside of work."

The room seemed to grow hot despite the wintry weather.

It was a bit like a scene from kindergarten where a nanny got fed up with kids running around behind her back during nap time. Except this nanny had a throwing knife and a sly smirk.

"Are you comfortable? You don’t seem to take me seriously." Jones looked almost amused as he pulled the throwing knife from the table and began chipping the wood.

"I know I’m a funny person. However," his smirk gradually shrank to a cold smile, "if you make me go out there and clean up after you, I won’t be laughing."

Kant and Hunter exchanged a quick glance, sweating.

"Here’s what’s going to happen next." Jones’s tone went back to being light and unassuming. "First, I want proof that Hale’s dead." He pointed at Hunter. "If he’s alive, you will take care of it before we have another walking corpse."

"Second," Jones continued, eyeing Kant like he was an unpinned grenade, "you are going to bring back the money for the Gabriel Everett hit. All of it."

"Understood." Kant was more than glad to give it back. Perhaps that’d help him forget all about it and move on.

There was a heavy pause before Jones leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. He casually stabbed the table closer to Kant. "One last strike and you’re out."

The room hung in tense silence.

"One strike?" Hunter asked, his voice lacking all edge.

Jones tilted his head, a mocking grin on his face. "Do you need me to install a progress board with stickers and shit, or will you be able to keep track of it yourself? You got two strikes, Hunter."

He stood up, then cast them one last look with a bright customer service smile. "There better be a picture of Hale’s dead face and Everett’s hit money on my desk by the end of today."

The door clicked shut.

There was a brief pause of reality check before the two remaining men in the storage room could finally breathe.

Hunter ran a hand through his hair. "Damn." He tugged at the collar of his jacket uncomfortably. "I forgot he’s the real psycho here."

Kant snorted despite himself, shaking off his shirt, that had glued itself to his back. "You think you’re any better, anger issues?"

"Better than a cheerful sadist or a schizophrenic," Hunter muttered on the way out. He slipped out of the chicken shop just as rudely as he had arrived. No hello, no goodbye.

Kant lingered for a moment, listening to Mrs. Shin chat about daily trivialities for a few minutes before bidding farewell.

He glanced over his shoulder at Jones casually waiting tables. One last strike, huh? And then what? Death?

Kant shook his head and trudged along the sidewalk, the crunch of snow under his boots echoing slightly. His eyes half-heartedly scanned the road with its muddied dark snow hugged by stark white sidewalks.

The day was windless, not a breeze passing by.

Snow blanketed the ground, muffling sounds. Everything was eerily calm, like a perfect day for gut-wrenching screams of murder or a long nap.

His mind wandered. The blood, the violence, the confrontations—was it all even worth it? Either way, Kant didn’t fit in anywhere else. It was a pointless question.

He let out a frustrated sigh and looked up again. A movement in the distance caught his eye.

A figure shuffled through the snow ahead. The hood covered their face, but that posture and rhythm of walking...

The warning bell went off in Kant’s mind.

He swerved sharply, hastening his pace in the opposite direction.

What unlucky timing.

Just when he thought he got away unnoticed, a snowball whizzed past his ear and hit the pole in front of him with a soft ding.

Kant froze, pressing his lips together. He slowly turned around.

Gabriel, rosy-cheeked and grinning wide, stood a few meters away, another snowball in his hand.

"Found you!" he laughed, his breath misting in the chilly air.

Kant ducked as the tightly-pressed ball sailed over his head. How had he gone from dodging bullets to dodging snowballs in such a short time?

"Wrong person." Kant turned back around and sped up.

They were too close to the chicken joint. It was dangerous. Yet Gabriel over here was trying to pull him into a snowball fight.

Kant walked briskly, but Gabriel caught up with chipper steps. "I went to your apartment, but no one was home, so I figured you were here."

"Go home." Kant shot him a disapproving glance. "Don’t you know your face is all over the news?"

"But I’m well-hidden. See?"

Kant stared at Gabriel pull the hood over his face, resembling a small animal burrowing into its cave. It was both endearing and infuriating. Kant ran a hand over his face and kept walking, trying to ignore it.

"Come on, aren’t you happy to see me? It’s been over a week." Gabriel tipped into Kant’s space, their shoulders brushing.

Kant stepped away. "This place isn’t safe for you."

Gabriel quickened his pace, arguing, "Well, having a bullet in my head isn’t safe either. But it doesn’t stop me from living."

"The bullet..." Kant slowed, turning towards Gabriel. Should he have removed the bullet while Gabriel was dead? Would it have been better that way? Unfortunately, that thought hadn’t crossed his mind back then.

"Does it cause you trouble?" Kant’s eyebrows furrowed. "Any complications?"

Gabriel put on a petulant expression and shrugged, the soft fur lining his jacket collar rippling along the movement. "I might tell you if you stop trying to shake me off."

Kant’s concerned expression flattened. "Why am I even asking you? You’re clearly fine." He resumed on his path.

"Wait, I have some interesting news. Don’t you wanna hear?" Gabriel hopped after him.

"No, thanks. I’ve had enough of ’interesting’ news for today," Kant muttered.

One of the main reasons why Kant had fled from his apartment before finding a proper place to live was to avoid Gabriel. Unsuccessfully, clearly.

Now he was stuck living in a storage unit, hanging out at the gym to work out, shower, and charge his phone, then loitering around diners and convenience stores. It was awfully reminiscent of his middle school days.

"Am I bothering you?" Gabriel suddenly asked.