1 An Eye for An Eye

"My good son, hide here and don't even think of going out," said the man towards the small boy who is rubbing his eyes, still feeling sleepy.

Albeit his perplexed expression, the young lad still followed his dad and hid inside the closet, hugging his knees, "Are we going to play hide and seek, dad?" He innocently asked, tilting his head.

The man appeared to be in his mid-thirties. His obsidian-black eyes were deep yet his gaze was gentle. His cracked lips stretched to a soft smile, the side of his eyes crinkled—a smile that said a thousand words about a love of a father towards his son.

A loud bang resonated within the room, startling the two, and made them shift their gazes towards the source of the sound. His father cleared his throat and looked at the boy, "Don't ever go out of the closet, okay? Dad's going to be back," said he, giving the little boy's forehead a soft kiss and mustering a gentle smile once again. The man turned his back against his son, not looking back as he dashed towards the door.

Despite his young mind and the extreme effort of his father to calm him down, he knew something was wrong. There was something concerning within his father's serene gaze, and it was the fact that there were visible tears in his eyes.

He wanted to call his father—tell him to come back—but his tongue was tied. It was as if something was stuck in his throat that forbade him from shouting his father's name. All he did was cry silently, covering his mouth as he peeped at the small opening of the closet left unknowingly by his father.

Before his father could leave the room, the man behind the loud banging earlier kicked the door open. He was followed by a group of hulking figures who looked like goons clad in jet-black leather; their defined muscles and curves were visible. They were no ordinary man, the little boy was sure of it.

The pistol on the ringleader's hand glistened under the moonlight. His father gulped the lump on his throat and blocked the little closet out of their view. He balled his hand to a fist to stop himself from trembling before speaking, "S-sirs, please give me a last chance. I'll pay you back this time. I promise," said he with his trembling voice, almost cracking.

The leader scowled, "You've said that a hundred times. Do you really think we're that kind?"

"This time—" he took a deep breath, calming himself, "—I promise! I'll pay this time."

A sinister smile formed on the leader's lips. He narrowed his gaze to the poor father, grinning from ear to ear. "You have a son, right? Let's have a deal shall we?" He pulled a rusty, old stool and plopped down on it. "Hand me your son and I'll forget about your debt."

Patche's heart began palpitating in agitation, breathing heavily as he silently wished for someone—anyone—to intervene and save them from the men. He wanted to step out and help his father. But what could a child do against them?

His father was immediately brought down to his knees. He crawled towards the ringleader and hugged his legs as he looked up desperately, "No! Please no, not my son!" His voice was shaky, fear struck his whole system.

Of all the things that he could ask, why his son? His one and only reason to live? Dignity, honor, pride-right at that moment, it didn't matter. If abandoning those would spare their lives, both he and his son, he would gladly do so.

The leader's jaw clenched and scoffed. He kicked the boy's father towards the cold floor and pointed the gun at the latter, aiming his head, "Then pay with yours instead!"

The deafening sound of the trigger going off. and the sound of his father's lifeless body dropping down the floor followed by the men's boisterous laughs rang through his ears. He was left inside the closet, astounded and unable to utter a single syllable.

Patche gasped for air, arms outstretched towards the darkness as he sat up abruptly. He was drenched in sweat and his body felt cold. It took a while for him to register that he is inside his room. Good thing his phone vibrated, and managed to wake him up from the nightmare.

It was 6:31 in the morning. Brushing off the scene he had long forgotten, he stood up and walked towards the bathroom to start the day.

"What a nightmare," he mumbled to himself, drenching his face with cold water hoping that it would wake him up completely.

It was not just any random nightmare, but a traumatic experience of the past—one that continued to haunt him and is his reason to live.

Patche Mariani had been an orphan at a young age. His father, the only family he had, died a gruesome death in front of him in the hands of loan sharks. Someone by the name of 'Boss' approached him and offered a deal—his life in exchange for vengeance to those who killed his father. He was trained in a mansion until he was eighteen and was already able to carry out missions.

With a cup of freshly brewed coffee in his one hand and a file on the other hand, Patche skimmed through the information sent to him. He sat quietly on his bed, taking in every detail at a rapid pace.

He grimaced upon reading the specifications of his new mission. He should be used to it by now, but he can't. "Assassinate a president's son, huh? Truly cruel."

As he accepted the deal, he knew there was no turning back. But he was ready to do everything to avenge his dad, no matter what the cost is.

Patche is a believer in Hammurabi's code: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Hunting down those bastards who wronged him and his family is only possible with the help of the boss—his influence and fame were what he needed.

However, no matter how crucial the boss is in his revenge, killing people he doesn't even know just because it's part of a mission is against his aesthetics. He would often ask himself the difference between him and his father's killers.

Every time he shoots a person who is desperately begging for his life, he would be reminded of his father that day. He can't afford to be shaken, not now, not until he completed his vengeance. Yet again, it was too much. The guilt inside him continued to build up.

Patche threw the file on the bed, gritting his teeth. "I've had fucking enough."