Lingering Problem.

A man doesn't wear makeup or smell like chamomile hand cream or even lavender moisturizer.

At least not in my professional environment.

This most likely explained, to my great distress, the behavior of my current target.

For some reason that escaped me until now, the terrified look of the man I was holding at gunpoint kept going back and forth between my face and my right hand that held the gun, a confused look crossing his damaged and bloody face.

I had already managed to isolate him in the old building where we were, and faced with his resistance, I had to hit him several times in the face to destabilize and neutralize him. A few well-placed punches could put a person out of action for a few minutes to a few hours, if they were well directed. Or even kill him.

Nevertheless, the now livid young man sitting on the ground shaking was not a target to be shot.

This time it was a simple warning. A classic case of disobedience of an order given by a superior, who had asked for a proper rehabilitation of the unfortunate in question.

One or two broken phalanges might do the trick, but given the punches he had taken on his face, it seemed to me that the message had already been sent.

I was only aiming at him to control his behavior, not to kill him; but he didn't know that, of course. He must have thought I was going to shoot and kill him.

It was kind of stupid to think I was going to shoot in broad daylight, even in the place we were in. Strangulation or an 'accident' was easier to conduct in daylight. Less noise, less questions.

However, the people I was executing - or the ones who thought I was going to take them out - used to beg for their lives until the last minute, try to escape, or stare with a petrified expression at the barrel of my gun. Their focus was always on the threatening object, after all. The human brain ignored everything else, when survival instinct overrode reason.

So why did his pupils keep going up - to my face - and then suddenly down - to my hand - in a movement as fast as the lights of a traffic light at a crossing?

I was rather surprised to see this behavior, and immediately, I was seized with a horrible doubt.

Oh no.

Not again...

Slowly, I rotated my hand holding the firearm to the right, revealing my fingertips surrounding the gun's stock and trigger.

My fears were realized.

To my horror, my fingernails were covered with a fuchsia pink polish, and immediately I knew it had happened again.

Hastily, and still holding my target at gunpoint, I fumbled with my left hand on the ledge of a broken window right next to us, hastily fumbling for a piece of glass large enough for me to use as a mirror.

Finding a shard as big as my fist, which I then raised to my face, I immediately recoiled.

My lips were covered with a lipstick of a shade identical to the varnish that covered my nails.

With disgust, I started to rub my mouth with the back of my right hand still holding the weapon in order to make the vile color disappear as soon as possible. The color spread all around my mouth, taking the form of a partly erased paint trace that one would have seen on the face of a kid who tried to eat his crayons while his parents' backs were turned.

It had happened again.

Once more.

I could rub my jacket sleeve against my mouth all I wanted, but it wouldn't erase the filthy varnish that covered the nails of both my hands.

And the guy who was my objective for the day was starting to wiggle nervously on the floor, probably wondering if he should take a chance to get out or not.

A little too much movement on his part, and the muzzle of my gun had come to meet his skull, the cold steel resting against his temple.

"Don't move."

He froze like a rabbit aware of having been spotted by a predator, his big, trembling eyes fixed this time on my hand and the gun placed against his face.

Why the hell did this have to happen now?

Why hadn't I realized it earlier, when I was leaving my house?

Was this the cause of these weird looks and hasty whispers I'd been getting on the street all along the way?

Ah, what was I going to do... I didn't even have any cleaning wipes on me, and with the heat, I would have preferred not to wear a mask.

But I didn't really have a choice, if I wanted to avoid attracting attention outside.

"P...Please... Don't kill me, sir!" Begged the young man.

Ah yes, let's deal with the most urgent matter first. Let's get rid of the unwanted ones, since I had already sent a picture of his face full of bruises to the client. Contract fulfilled, so no need to linger any longer.

Lowering my gaze, I detailed the appearance of my target.

Hair bleached blond, black piercings and rings on his eyebrows and lower lip, and scruffy clothes much too big for him.

An underling, in short.

My eyes as gray as the asphalt cracked under the heat of the sun must have intimidated him and scared him even more, because he tried to back away from me. The barrel of my gun followed his movement closely, not allowing him any respite.

Even if he spoke, no one would believe him anyway. But I still had to make sure he would take his punishment without flinching. Discretion was crucial in this business, and even more so for contracts where there was no death to bury.

Squatting in front of him, broken glass crunched under my brand new shoes. Then I grabbed a good handful of his mid-length hair with my left hand, my other hand still pressing the cold barrel of the gun to his skull.

I could feel his warm, jerky breathing on my face.

"You better shut up about what happened today, and follow the Old Man's instructions in the future," I said with a very clear elocution and a low tone of voice.

He nodded vigorously, his eyes glancing everywhere but at my own.

Wimpy as he was, I was sure he wouldn't tell anyone he'd been beaten up by a guy alone. It wasn't the kind of thing you liked to brag about in this business.

I gave a small satisfied smile, before preparing to get up and let the jerk go, when he responded to my words.

"I promise! I won't tell anyone you're a transvestite!"

My gaze hardened, a malevolent glare animating them as I glared at the poor fool. My left hand suddenly tightened on the strands of hair it was gripping, bringing the young man's face closer to mine.

"That I am... A what?" I asked slowly with a threatening tone.

"Or that you're gay! I don't know, I don't know anything! I didn't see anything and it's none of my business!" He squeaked.

I remained silent for a moment, squinting and frowning, before suddenly removing the gun barrel from my target's temple.

With the weapon finally tucked away in my chest holster, the young man breathed a sigh of relief that quickly turned into a hiccup of surprise as I pulled a folding blade knife from one of my pants pockets.

"Please! I'm not going to say anything! I swear!"

A press of my thumb on a small button on the side, and the blade immediately sprang from its hiding place, its gleaming surface reflecting the young man's frightened expression.

"You're not going to say anything, and certainly not spread a totally unfounded rumor," I said calmly as I brought the blade close to his eyes. "Right?"

He shook his head briskly within the limit that my firm grip on his hair allowed him to.

The last thing I needed was to be in the spotlight and have my terrible secret discovered.

No one was to know what had been going on for the past few months.

No one.

With a sudden gesture, I passed the blade of my knife through the young man's bleached hair, cutting off all the strands that I held in my left hand.

I then showed the impertinent man my fist tightened on what looked more like a pile of straw, a petty smile appearing on my lips still partly smeared with pink.

"Good, because next time I'll cut a lot lower than that..." I threatened him as I opened my left fist to release and drop the clump of cut hair to the floor.

He sniffed loudly, tears running down his cheeks and reviving the faded colors of the blood that had already dried.

With this last gesture, and considering his behavior, I was sure he would shut up. He belonged to the category of the big cowards, the easiest to control.

The last thing I needed was for people to find out that the assassin they had hired was plagued with problems.

One, having appeared a few months ago, and the other having burst into my life a few days earlier.

Having felt my cell phone vibrate in my trouser pocket, I took it in hand to open a written message simple by its content but annoying by its formulation.

'Out of toilet paper, and there was also an accident with the washing machine.'

It seemed that one of the problems in question was really trying to ruin my already rotten day.

With annoyance and apprehension, I started to dial the number I knew by heart by now.

The ringing of the incoming call echoed in the large empty room where I was, reminding me that I was on my own when I was on a job.

Then I finally heard the silence: the phone had been picked up.

"What do you mean by 'accident'?" I asked abruptly with anxiety.

I had already mentally prepared myself for another drama to occur while I was away. It had become too recurrent to be otherwise.

Besides, I was also convinced that she had purposely not told me about my more than questionable appearance, when I had gone out this morning.

"I forgot to take off my red blouse, and everything turned pink..." Replied the female voice on the other end of the phone.

"Everything turned 'pink'?" I repeated with the feeling that I was going to hate her next words.

She had a knack for causing disasters wherever she went, so if her range was limited to a small space like my apartment...

It was like putting a cyclone in a water bottle.

"Everything. Shirts, socks, ties." She replied as if she were listing a simple shopping list and not designer clothes that cost me an exorbitant amount of money.

This had the effect of making me lose my temper, once again.

"I told you not to touch my stuff, woman!" I shouted at the end of the phone.

"I'm not your wife but your prisoner, I remind you!" She replied instantly, not the least bit frightened. "Oh, and I want to eat pistachio ice cream!"

Before I could even retort anything, she hung up as soon as she was done ordering me around.

Ah, I was going to have a headache...

It really made me wonder which one of us was supposed to be the villain in this story.