Snap! Snap!
Bang!
The thudding sound of gloves meeting the padded target echoed through the gym.
"Keep going!" the coach barked.
Inside the Organization's private training grounds, atop the sparring ring, the coach gritted his teeth as he absorbed another barrage of fast, heavy strikes from Hayashi Yoshiki.
His fists, deceptively elegant for someone with such a refined appearance, were fast, precise, and packed with a weight that made each strike reverberate through the coach's arms.
Snap! Snap!! SNAP!!
Left. Right. Hook. Step-in jab. His feet shifted with perfect timing, his body weight transferring seamlessly into every blow.
"Good rhythm! One more set!" the coach urged.
Yoshiki didn't answer. He just kept hitting.
Another half-hour passed before the coach—arms now numb—finally waved his hand in surrender.
"...Let's call it a day."
"Got it. Thanks for your time, coach."
Hayashi climbed down from the ring, unwrapped his fists, and wiped the light sheen of sweat from his forehead. Despite the grueling workout, his breathing remained steady.
He walked over to his gym bag, grabbed a bottle, and took a long sip of grapefruit-flavored energy drink.
Refreshing. Subtly bitter. Just the way he liked it.
"Still training after five minutes?" the coach asked, panting.
"Nope. That's it for today."
From the ring, Hamada Daisei, the coach who had sparred with him, watched with a complex expression.
He looks like some princely novelist from a poster... but punches like a pro fighter.
And worst of all?
He learns way too fast.
Ding-ling-ling-ling~!
The phone on the bench rang.
Hayashi picked up without hesitation.
"Come to the bar we met at last time. 10:30 tonight," said a familiar low voice.
"Understood."
Click.
No farewells. Just like always.
Gin didn't do goodbyes.
After a hot shower in the locker room, Hayashi changed into dark casual wear. The Organization's training compound was more luxurious than one might expect: it had a shooting range, an arena, combat simulation rooms, and even a pool for endurance training.
He could even carry one of the range pistols outside if needed—but he preferred not to draw unnecessary attention.
10:30 p.m.The familiar bar. The familiar skyline.
The black, modern building loomed under the streetlights.
Inside, behind the subtle red glow of the cocktail bar, sat two familiar figures.
"Yo." Vodka raised a hand in greeting.
"Good evening," Hayashi nodded. "Mr. Vodka. Gin."
Gin smoked in silence, his green eyes watching from behind the haze.
Vodka, meanwhile, flinched slightly at the greeting.
Why's it always "Gin" and "Mr. Vodka"...?
It irritated him in a way he couldn't quite explain.
Hayashi ignored him. He sat at the bar and picked up the leather-bound drink menu, flipping through it leisurely.
Before he could decide, the bartender—a new face—placed a drink in front of him.
A crystal-clear spirit over two ice cubes in a classic glass.
"...Cointreau," Gin said, pressing his cigarette out in the ashtray.
"A French liqueur first distilled in the early 1800s," Gin explained. "Known for its distinct orange aroma and sweet, fruity complexity. Often used in cocktails... but just as fine when drunk neat."
He grinned.
"This is your code name."
Hayashi looked down at the drink.
"...Cointreau."
He lifted the glass and took a sip.
The first thing he noticed was the sweetness, gentle and fragrant.
Then came the layered citrus aroma, followed by a mellow burn that trailed down his throat, leaving a bittersweet orange finish.
Beautiful. Complex. Potent.
Just like the name.
Gin smirked, clearly pleased with the symbolism.
Men in the Organization were typically named after distilled spirits. Women were named after wines or fruit liqueurs.
Cointreau—sweet and charming on the surface.But in truth, a strong, high-proof killer.
"You've officially joined the cabinet," Vodka said, raising his glass. "From now on, it's Cointreau."
"Strange feeling, getting a code name like this," Hayashi mused, placing his glass down.
"…"
"Will it change anything for me?"
"Yes." Gin leaned back. "Your status rises. More access on internal channels. No more babysitters tracking you. You can request Organization funds, and even assign lower-tier members to assist you."
"Sounds useful."
Gin narrowed his eyes.
"The boss is watching. He's impressed—both by your public persona, and your effectiveness in the shadows. Don't disappoint him."
Hayashi chuckled.
"If it's just doing my job, that's no problem."
The memory of the accidental murder staged days ago still lingered in Gin's mind.
Yokogawa Naoya, one of his assigned targets—dead.
But not by Hayashi's hand.
No. The man had arranged events to ensure Wakamatsu Toshihide, a completely uninvolved party, would be the one holding the weapon.
By all appearances: a justified case of excessive self-defense.
But Gin knew better.
For him, even people themselves can become part of the "accident."
That level of planning was beyond ordinary.
That... was artistry.
But Gin had no love for art.
He only valued utility.
If you're not an informant…If your hands are steady…If your loyalties align…Then your methods don't matter.
"One more thing," Hayashi said, swirling the ice in his glass. "You're not planning to keep promoting me publicly, right?"
"No."
"Good."
There were too many eyes.
The more popular he became, the more likely undercover agents or intelligence units would start paying close attention.
Not yet.Not until I get all their names.Not until I know every face at the top of the Organization.
If only he had the "Eyes of Death"… things would be faster.
But for now, he'd take the slow road.
He would collect identities one by one.
Build trust.
Climb higher.
Until the day came when even the Boss would look him in the eye—And not realize that the hand holding the glass was also the one holding the pen.