“I couldn't find a single news channel that wasn't talking about Mr. Smith's death.” George kept pressing the TV remote, trying to escape the news reports about Mr. Smith's death.
“Come on, it’s not the first time we’ve done that. You know how much the media loves to publicize our actions.” I replied without looking up, my gaze still fixed on the novel in my hands.
"I mean, they were so stupid," George sighed as he switched the TV to the sports news channel, where even the scrolling text in the corner was showing the results of our assassination mission.
"They've been tracking us for so long, but they still haven't found us."
He’s right. Ever since we started our assassin career, governments around the world have been trying to hunt us down using all sorts of methods, but for some reason—maybe just luck—we've never been caught.
Suddenly, a familiar piano rhythm came from the bedside table. "Michael in the Bathroom," George's preset ringtone.
“George, your mom's calling.”
George let out a groan, put down the TV remote, rolled over in bed, and listlessly picked up his phone.
“Uh… the third time today...” George muttered a complaint, but he still answered the phone.
“Mom?”
“Hey, honey!” A familiar voice came from the phone. Thinking about it, I realized that I hadn't seen George's mom for more than half a year.
"Yeah? What's up?"
"How are things in New York? Are you well-fed and clothed?"
George couldn't help but roll his eyes. He rolled over on the bed again, now lying on his back in a starfish position.
“It’s great, Mom.” A pause. “I share a house with Enola, you know.”
"Oh, I know. I just wanted to make sure nothing strange has happened lately?"
George sighed heavily, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes irritably.
"No, nothing has happened, everything is normal."
"Great. Please call me if anything happens." George's mom's tone carried a barely perceptible hint of worry. "And come back to San Francisco to visit us when you have time."
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I will.”
His mother seemed to say something else, and George frowned, gave a rather perfunctory reply with some onomatopoeia, and then hung up the phone.
"Your mom is just worried about you." I looked up and put down the novel in my hand.
George winked at me as if I were the worst person in the world to say that.
"Dude, don't say that. This is the third time my mom has called today."
Since we returned to New York from San Francisco last Christmas, George's mother, who used to trust him quite a bit, started calling every few days, and each time she would ask, "Has anything strange happened?"
That Christmas was a turning point. George and I moved to New York after high school, while George's parents remained in San Francisco. Their family relationship was quite good; George's parents knew he was gay and were very supportive. The Winslow family is probably the happiest family I've ever seen. But for some reason, on Christmas night, they got into an argument in their room.
I wasn't quite sure what they were arguing about, and George, who I usually confide in, was unusually unwilling to reveal anything. But when he pushed open the door, I knew very clearly that he had been crying. George wasn't a crybaby; I'd only seen that look in his eyes once before, on the day his teddy bear finally had to be thrown away.
I know he doesn't like talking about these things, and even though I'm his best friend, he still doesn't like showing his vulnerable side to me. "That way you'll feel like you can rely on me," he once told me.
In any case, George's relationship with his mother began to deteriorate rapidly, as if in freefall, and the frequent phone calls only exacerbated the situation.
“I'm serious, George. Your mom really loves you.”
George snorted, replying to a text message on his phone. "Hmph, if you knew what she actually said to me, you wouldn't say that."
I sighed slightly, a faint smile appearing on my face. "Alright, let's not worry about that now." I jumped out of bed and opened the bookshelf. "Want to watch a movie?"
George then smiled. "Ah, you know me."
He sat up straight on the bed, raising an eyebrow. "Now You See Me?"
"Are you sure? We've watched that movie more than ten times already." I raised an eyebrow.
"Come on, you know how much I love crime movies." George lightly punched my shoulder.
"Now You See Me" is probably the thing we've watched the most times, besides "Dear Evan Hansen." (Because that thing is just so tear-jerking, dude, tissues cost money.) Given the nature of our work, George and I are obsessed with crime movies, like "The Day of the Jackal" or "Ocean's Eleven."
I turned on my computer and prepared to put my DVD player on the screen. Just then, an anonymous email popped up in my inbox.
I squinted. The letter had been sent directly to my school account. I didn't usually receive emails unless it was a teacher chasing me for homework or George's parents. As for George, we were together almost all day; there was no need for emails.
Who sent me this email? And anonymously at that? Could it be a scam? But it's a student account; scammers should know students don't have much spending power, right? (Even though I do.)
With some hesitation, I opened the email.
Dear Enola Jackson,
Okay, a fairly normal start... but a bit too formal.
I am earnestly requesting your assistance, along with that of your friend, George Winslow. We urgently need you to eliminate a certain individual for us. Since this matter cannot be described in a letter, if you are willing to accept this commission, please meet us at Central Park, where we will explain the terms of the deal.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
- Wait, shouldn't I make it clear that I'm asking the fox and the octopus for help?
From people who desperately need help.
Holy shit.
My eyes widened, my fingertips hovering over the keyboard. I'd received countless murder requests, watched countless heads spin through the scope. But I'd never felt such fear and anxiety in my life. My mouth gaped open, every muscle in my body tensed, and I was in a state of readiness to flee.
"George..." My voice cracked; I just wanted to crawl into a hole. "I need Player Two."
George abruptly looked up, stopping his fiddling with the CD case. The playful atmosphere vanished, replaced by seriousness. "I need Player Two" was our code, a hint that I needed his help with “that job.”
"What?" George crawled from the other end of the bed to my side and quickly read the email on the computer screen.
“Holy shit.” When George read the ps. paragraph, his face fell. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and made sure he wasn't seeing things.
“We’re fucked.” This was the only sentence that could be squeezed out of my head.
"No, that's impossible. Nobody knows the true identities of the fox and the octopus." George shook his head violently, as if that would shake off the letter.
"But the facts are right in front of you!" I pointed to the email on the computer screen.
George and I stared at each other for a long time, his eyes seeming to say to me, "Please tell me this is fake." I wished I could do that too, but I couldn't.
I began to recall my past. The dark web certainly offered a degree of secrecy, but it wasn't entirely without trace. For an assassin, revealing their real name was tantamount to losing their life. Because once anyone knew your true identity, they could obtain your information through various means and ultimately capture you completely.
I'm not afraid of being hunted by other assassins, because those amateur killers' sniping skills are practically child's play with toy guns. But if government agencies come knocking, I won't be able to escape. Governments and militaries all over the world want Fox and Octopus's heads, and they'll stop at nothing to capture us.
"What do you think? Should we go to Central Park?" George asked timidly, glancing around as if to confirm whether the person who sent the email was lurking nearby.
"No, absolutely not." I shook my head firmly. "That's suicide, you know that."
"But if we don't verify who this anonymous sender is, we're putting ourselves in danger."
I pursed my lips. George was right. We must know who our enemy is, so we can at least prevent it, and even better, eliminate it if possible.
“Alright, but we can’t go like this.” I pointed at the clothes we were wearing. “If they have our names, they can find out what we look like through any means.”
George thought for a moment, then his eyes lit up.
"How about... a disguise?"
Disguise. Yeah, I really don’t like to bring it up, but disguise is another special skill of mine besides using a sniper rifle. However, I will not disguise myself unless necessary.
"Uh, George, you know I don't like that."
"But this is the only way."
I bit my lip, remained silent for a long time, then stood up and reached into the cabinet to pull out a bunch of cosmetics that I hadn't used in a long time, but miraculously none of them had expired.
"Come on, you go first."
I grabbed the powder compact and started to contour George's face. I took out my photochromic lenses and used them to make George's eyes blue.
“Do you want a wig?” I asked him jokingly.
“What kind of wig? Like a girl?” George chuckled.
"Yeah, if you want it." I gave a big smile and pulled a black wig out of my storage box.
"Jesus, you look like a girl." I raised an eyebrow as I looked at my friend with long black hair.
“Hmm, ‘cause I’m one now.” George winked at me, then dramatically struck a very feminine pose.
“Holy shit.” We both burst out laughing. I slapped my thigh and wiped away the tears from the corners of my eyes. "You're not going to wear my dress, are you?"
"Oh, if you have dresses in your closet." George made a face at me.
“Oh, shut up!” I rolled my eyes, grabbed my makeup tools, and headed to the bathroom.
I closed the bathroom door, placed my makeup tools on the sink, and then sighed heavily. I can accept doing other people's makeup, but doing my own… I braced myself against the sink, took a deep breath, and tried to steady my ragged breathing. I looked up and met the same green gaze I saw in the mirror.
My mother died when I was five, but I still remember what she looked like. Long brown hair, delicate features, and that ever-present upturned corner of her mouth. I look like my mom, of course, but there's another part of me—my dad.
I don't know my father's exact identity; I've only ever seen him once. On that night when blood splattered all over the walls, I remember clearly that face—shoulder-length black hair, that pale and sorrowful expression, and those sharp, jewel-like green eyes.
That night, he left without looking back. But now, I can see that infuriating face in the mirror. Green eyes, that expression… I still have a part of my father; I can't deny that. And disguise even more so.
It started when I was ten. Before I met George, my life was worse than hell. I didn't have a stable place to live, and I was always struggling to make ends meet. I worked in restaurants, carried goods, and did anything that could earn me money.
Naturally, some "money-making" activities were not protected by law. While making a living, I also had to evade my peers and the police. What could a ten-year-old girl possibly do against those adults? Therefore, I had to rely on my wits. I began to change my appearance—from my clothes and hairstyle to learning how to apply makeup. Until one day, I was chased into a dead-end alley by a group of drug addicts, but they didn't recognize me. That's when I realized I could subtly alter my appearance without makeup. Changing my eye color, the definition of my features…
But for some reason, I knew very well that this ability came from my father. My gaze fell on the bathroom mirror again, and this time, my face looked exactly like my father's. Black hair, green eyes, and that expression that seemed ready to plot some kind of prank at any moment.
My stomach churned, and a strange nausea rose from my fingertips. I sighed, rubbed my cheeks, and forced myself to change my appearance to resemble my mother's.
"You look a lot like you when you grow up," George said as I walked out of the bathroom.
"At least not like I am now," I said weakly, pulling on George's windbreaker. "Let's go."
George and I, trying to appear calm, arrived at Central Park. George was completely absorbed in his role, striking poses for a group of high schoolers who passed by (and, importantly, the high schoolers were grinning like idiots). As for me, I nervously looked around, trying to find the person who sent the anonymous letter.
"Stop flirting with that guy." I patted George on the shoulder, and he pouted. "We're here to find enemies, not boyfriends."
At that moment, my gaze fell upon two men standing not far away. One had a head of brown-gold curly hair and wore a blue baseball cap. The other had shoulder-length black hair and wore a green casual shirt.
They stood there like ordinary people, but for some reason, they seemed to exude something that my sixth sense told me—they were the guys who sent the anonymous letters.
My legs started moving before my brain could stop me. Ignoring George, who was still fixing his wig, I walked straight toward the two of them.
“Hey, what are you doing?” George shouted from behind me and quickened his pace to catch up with me.
Hearing the voice, the long-haired man turned around, and our eyes met.
I was stunned.
Emerald eyes, that smile, that expression... There’s no mistake, it's him.
My dad.
When the man saw me, he also looked shocked, his eyes filled with a mixture of worry and elation. He turned around and walked toward me.
“George!” I screamed, completely oblivious to the fact that the person I called George was now dressed as a woman.
“Run! Now!”
I grabbed George's arm and started running toward our home.
"Wait, what's wrong? Is it that anonymous sender? Where?" George asked, bewildered as I dragged him along. He kept looking around, trying to figure out where my fear was coming from.
“It’s just… that guy.”
I rushed up the apartment stairs, frantically pulling my keys from my pocket.
Honestly, I didn't know what I was so nervous about. I wasn't even sure if that person was my dad. What was I running for? To escape the fear in my heart? To get rid of the mask on my face? I could feel my face returning to its original form.
“Come on…” With trembling hands, I turned the key in the keyhole. Thank God.
Just as I was about to push open the door and return to my safe haven, a hand reached out and grasped the doorknob.
"Are you Enola Jackson?"