“Why a bar? You know I don’t drink.”
She watches as he effortlessly drains the rest of his tequila, sips as swift and sure as a bartender pours. She would’ve been appalled were it not for the fact that alcohol has absolutely no effect on his metabolism. Lucky.
“I know. That’s why I picked a place known for its mocktails.”
She glances at the extensive menu inscribed in old-school chalk. Mind made up, she helps herself to his credit card and strides over to the counter.
“If you insist.”
She returns with a mango-passion-fruit-soda water concoction containing mango popping boba and rimmed with an excessive amount of rainbow sprinkles. He wasn’t even aware they had sprinkles.
“How much did that set me back?”
“Just nine dollars.”
She wants to laugh at how incredulous he looks.
“For that?”
“The sprinkles cost extra.”
“Of course they did.”
Her eyes talk too much, proudly radiating amusement, and he thinks that he must be losing his touch if he can’t intimidate her like he used to.
He’s about to swipe her drink for himself, the vindictive housecat that he is, when she hands him a margarita of his own. He relents at the olive branch, plucking it from her grasp.
“So, what do you have?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“How much you’re willing to pay me.”
She fiddles with the golden tassels of her leather jacket. He recognises this one. It’s her favourite.
“How about not arresting you?”
“Mm, I don’t work like that, Ying. Try again.”
“And I don’t bargain with criminals, honey. Try again.”
“Honey?”
She sips her drink, eyes never leaving his and maintaining a perfectly arched brow the entire time. He notices that her lips are coloured a bold plum today instead of her usual ebony. He wonders what sparked the change.
“I call everyone honey. Now are you going to waste my time, honey, or hand over the intel like you promised?”
“I haven’t promised anything.”
She simply shrugs.
“You know you don’t have a choice. We can’t afford to leave whoever this is gallivanting around, killing whoever he wants.”
“You mean you can’t afford to. I’ll be sleeping just fine.”
She seizes his wrist as he rises to leave.
“Maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that you can help. In fact, I would dare say you actually want to. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
She meets his ice-cold stare with a self-satisfied grin drowning in conviction. He knows she’s right. She always is. It’s only a matter of time before the country’s second-best assassin comes for his throne. Or for his family. He can handle the second-rate poser by himself, no problem, but that’s the least of his worries with his children in the equation.
He extends his hand.
“Orion. Pleasure to meet you.”
If she’s surprised by the sudden identity reveal, she doesn’t show it. She withholds her questions. He settles back into his seat.
“Now, what do you want to know, lisichka?”
Her grin goes Cheshire at that.
Anna Oh is an aspiring writer from Singapore who enjoys exploring themes of existentialism. Her other hobbies include avoiding human interaction and finding her place in the universe. She also runs the Critical Thinking Café on Substack.
Modern Flash Fiction 