Three Tiny Vials
“Good afternoon, what would you like to drink?”
She’s sweet. A slim blonde, maybe twenty-three, twenty-four at most. Probably works here part-time when she needs to, just enough to cover rent when it’s tight.
I looked into her eyes and smiled politely.
“A coffee would hit the spot right now. But I’ll let you choose. Surprise me. I trust you’ve got good taste—and that I’ll enjoy every sip.”
She nodded and headed back inside. I didn’t miss the faint curl of satisfaction at the corner of her lips, nor the light blush rising on her cheeks.
I watched people rushing by. Like ants, moving in waves, trying to complete whatever insignificant tasks they consider important. From this vantage point, only now do I clearly see how irrelevant one human life really is. How fleeting, trivial… and how much potential it has to be amusing.
Heh. Here she comes, walking briskly. Our eyes meet and she gives a shy, almost uncertain smile.
She sets down a tall glass in front of me. Ice cubes barely shift inside a creamy-milk liquid crowned with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. So—an iced latte with whipped cream. Interesting choice. Hazelnut? Must be her favorite here.
I watch her hands as she carefully places the coffee on the table. Gentle, graceful movements, well-kept hands, the glass touching the surface with barely a sound. A musician… no, the way her fingers drift away from the glass in a soft, wave-like motion—more like a brushstroke. Ah, she’s a painter.
I look into her eyes again. Blue as the sea, with a faraway, dreamy focus that feels like she’s looking through me. Yes, definitely a painter.
Her cheeks flush again and she glances toward the coffee. She wants me to taste it before she leaves. She definitely cares, ignoring the new customers who sat down in the corner and are clearly waiting to be served.
Slowly I bring the glass to my lips, keeping my eyes on hers. Right before she speaks, her lower lip trembles for a moment.
“It’s a hazelnut iced latte. I hope that’s okay. It’s also…” her voice drops an octave lower, “…my favorite one here.”
I let the cold coffee slide down my throat while my taste receptors enjoy the hazelnut flavor. I exhale softly. “Perfect choice. It’s like you read my mind.” I gave her my best smile.
She turned red like a poppy and then coughed lightly, as if to steady herself. “I’m Lana and… and feel free to call me—um—call me if you need anything else.” She tried to kill the nervousness in her voice, but nothing escapes me.
“Thank you, Lana. I’ll enjoy this amazing coffee for now. Lana, right? Do you by any chance have cakes? Maybe I’ll try one later…”
“Uh, y-yes… yes, we… later we get fresh cakes delivered, I can bring you the menu so you c-can—so you can see…”
“No need. When they arrive, pick one out for me. I’m sure I’ll enjoy…” my voice dropped a tone lower, “…every bite. And thank you, Lana.” I finished with a smile.
For a brief moment her breathing sped up. To the untrained eye it would’ve been invisible, but I could easily spot the quickened rise of her chest and the renewed warmth in her cheeks. She was excited.
She smiled and rushed off to another table.
I raised the coffee to my lips again. I also noticed a group of guys—maybe early twenties—sitting two tables diagonally from me, staring in disbelief at the scene that just unfolded. Their eyes said everything.
That girl would eat out of his hand if he wanted.
One of them sat just right so I could see his lips move. Because I held the glass close to my face, he couldn’t tell I was watching him.
“Bro, that was unreal. I mean, she was like hypnotized… do you think he’s one of those pick-up guys? You know, those dudes who teach other guys how to flirt? I’ve seen them online… but he didn’t use any cheesy line, didn’t tease her, didn’t ask for her number! She told him her name herself. Bro, I would’ve asked for her number instantly…”
I smiled. From this distance, lip-reading a college kid was child’s play.
He thinks I’m one of those pick-up artists. They used to call them Venusian artists or something like that. His innocence is actually pretty endearing.
The communication between me and that girl started the moment I walked into this café—on an unconscious level. After that, everything is easier. Body language, eye contact, the right depth of voice, emphasizing specific words while looking at the right moment, and a whole stack of other factors… The science of body language, voice tone and depth, communication, biology, physiology, hypnosis, manipulation, illusion, prediction, pattern recognition, etiquette, refined manners… and on top of that, physical appearance. When someone has had all of that engraved into them for fifteen years, it becomes second nature. To an outsider it looks like magic… which is just another word for charisma.
For me, it had to become as natural as breathing.
From the outside, I probably look like an attractive man with magnetic presence and a successful career—someone who doesn’t worry about money. Which… wouldn’t be far from the truth.
But the real definition would be… that I am the most dangerous person in this world.
Naturally, that’s something ordinary people shouldn’t (and mustn’t) know.
Though… even in my head it sounds absurd—though still true.
“The most dangerous man on the planet.” That word dangerous could easily be replaced with strongest, wouldn’t make much difference.
Hmm… I wonder which martial art I haven’t mastered yet? At the moment the count is 168. In each of them I’m at the level of the highest master, and I pushed each to its absolute practical limit—usable in real combat. Which led me to develop my own fighting style… so I guess that makes it 169? Brazilian jiu-jitsu, karate, aikido, krav maga, combat sambo, judo, vale tudo, gong-fu, huka-huka, dambe, musangwe, hapkido, bokator, pencak silat, wing chun, ninjutsu, kalaripayattu… the list goes on and on…
I don’t think there’s a firearm I haven’t handled—and with each, my accuracy rate is over 90%. And as a sniper… I’ve never missed.
Traditional melee weapons are long behind me. In my hands, any object can become a tool for elimination. Though I do still enjoy silent removals.
I think the only thing I haven’t piloted is a space shuttle…
Hmm… currently I speak 79 languages, though I can only claim native fluency in 65. Languages are easy to learn—assuming you know which ones matter.
I’ve been to every country at least twice. Thankfully I have a photographic memory and no issue adapting to any environment…
There’s no job I’ve refused… assassinations, sabotage, government destabilization, cyber-warfare… though the ones I enjoyed most were eliminating the most dangerous people on Earth—top killers and spies. Sure, it’s fun to dismantle secret organizations, but nothing spikes adrenaline like a duel with the deadliest assassins alive, ones who can actually match your lethality. Just remembering that Indonesian and what he could do with knives… I chased him across the world until I finally eliminated him in Panama, at that airport. Though I think the only time I ever broke a sweat was in Turkey… that Italian with the Desert Eagle—my Glock felt about as useful as a letter-opener next to a machete. Well, he got his bullet to the head in the end…
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if superheroes really existed—Batman, Superman, Iron Man, Wolverine… eliminating them would be fun. I’d even offer a discount. For pleasure.
Ah yes… money isn’t an issue. Officially, I’m “worth” fourteen million dollars. Unofficially—around four and a half billion. Naturally, I can never be traced. When you “work” globally, you learn how money flows—and how to redirect those flows. Through investments. Not drugs, trafficking or that kind of stupidity—real estate, stocks, startups, opening companies. Even if I were ever exposed (which realistically sits at about 0.4% probability), I could disappear instantly with seven or eight hundred million.
Women are also no problem. I’ve slept with some of the most beautiful women on the planet. None ever refused me. Well—one did, but her life was short-lived afterward…
Many of my “colleagues” (and potential rivals) ask why I don’t retire. I don’t know if there’s a proper answer. I’ve lived adventures enough for three lifetimes, and there’s still so much ahead of me. I’m in my prime now—I can choose early retirement, or more challenges and adrenaline. It’s hard for the average mortal to understand things from my vantage point. To me, life is simultaneously the most valuable and the most worthless thing. Especially other people’s lives.
I never remember the names or faces of my targets. I could remember them—my memory could store thousands—but I simply refuse to. Why remember names of those I know I’ll kill? That’s like remembering every animal I’ve eaten, or every ant I’ve stepped on. What’s the point?
Strangely, I’ve never considered myself a psychopath or someone emotionally void. I simply realized that none of my assignments ever involved innocent people. Everyone is, in some shape or form, sinful, corrupt… or has passed those sins onto family. My only condition for every contract was that I must know why the target had to be eliminated. Anyone who approached me with, “For this money you don’t need to know why,” was rejected instantly—be they heads of state, criminal syndicates or secret organizations. Didn’t matter. They all knew that my work would be done at 100%, on time, and clean.
Even when I got the explanation, I always verified it myself. If a client lied, I dug for dirt—and once I found it, I’d go straight to the target, tell them who ordered their death, and offer my services for a third of the price.
But that never happened. No one is 100% innocent, and everyone has a reason why they shouldn’t exist. Or perhaps I only ever got those kinds of jobs…
My coffee was half-finished. In the distance I noticed pastries arriving to the café. Excellent…
Slowly I took a small wrapped bundle from my jacket and placed it on the table. Gently, I unraveled it and let out a quiet breath. It was true…
Three tiny vials, each the size of a thumb. One filled with yellow liquid, one red, and one blue. To an outside observer, they’d look like lemonade, pomegranate juice, and blueberry syrup.
The ultimate gift for a person who may be the peak of human psycho-physical evolution—worthy of someone who is, in many ways, closest to what could be called divine.
I can only drink one. The other two must be returned.
