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He leans his back on the wall, his hands gripping his gun tight. He wishes he could shoot the moon and tear the dark sky into pieces. He wants the night to end, that in the morning, he will forget everything about this, and all the nights before. He is tempted to light a cigarette, hoping it would take away the agitation he feels. Flashes of thoughts and images of people he knows, and even seemingly strangers keep pounding on his head, causing the lines on his forehead to be more visible. He throws curses into the air, almost whispers but in a profound tone.

The rules are clear. No cigarettes on the field. Don’t leave any trace behind. Finish the task as quickly and silently as you could. Focus on the target. No resignations. No spitting of information. No getting out.

He closes his eyes for a few seconds and regains composure. He knows he shouldn’t permit his thoughts to affect his assignment. He has been trained to think and feel less so he can focus and act faster to get things done. He has been waiting for Kulot to pass by the street, the same Kulot whom he never knew, but whose picture he has been glaring at every night for about a month now. He knows that Kulot has multiple records at Agdao Police Station for theft, illegal carrying of fire arms, and dealing of illegal drugs. Kulot is five-feet tall, has round eyes, dark complexion, five piercings on his left ear, and a tattoo of a skull, smiling on the back of his neck. That’s all he needed to know, as if two sentences can summarize thirty years of a person’s existence. Kulot could be a father, or a drunkard, or a rapper, or a pedicab driver, but no matter what, Kulot will be his eighteenth kill.

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