The Face No One Knows
London – 2:47 A.M.
The underground warehouse was dark and reeked of rust and dust, the only source of light being the overhead lights which shone a dim, warm yellow hue on the surface beneath it. Rain slapped hard against the small, rectangular cracked windows at the top most part of the walls, wind curling through the small gaps like smoke dancing freely in the night.
Beneath the dim flickering of the light, a man sat, his wrists bound behind his back, face bruised and bloodied. He sat limply on the iron chair which was nailed shut to the ground, his breathing in wet short gasps.
He raised his head, looking up at the scene before him. His eyes were wide, tired and haggard.
Across the room, men in black suits stood still, guards and enforcers, none of them spoke but the silence carried its own weight. Then they began to part. One by one, they stepped aside, like the parting of the red sea.
“Please…” The tied up man begged inaudibly, his voice barely passing off as a whisper.
A figure walked through the wall of men, the lone sound of his boots hitting the floor filled the big, quiet space. Calm. Controlled.
He didn’t speak, just glanced lazily at the man in front of him as if nonchalantly looking at a book. The rain hadn’t touched him, but the cold followed behind him like a grim reaper. It sent chills down everyone who came close.
The tied-up man blinked in shock, trying to make sense of what or who he was seeing.
“No… no, it can’t be. You?” he rasped. “You’re the one in charge?”
There was no confirmation. Just silence. The man before him didn’t bother to answer. He only looked down at the other sitting as if staring at something broken in front of him.
The bound man began to tremble even harder. Tears welled up, blurring his already bloodshot eyes. “You, you don’t have to do this, okay? If it’s about the money, you don’t have to worry about it. I can give you more. Double what they gave me. No, no, no, triple! Just don’t kill me, please…” he choked on his own tears.
Still, silence.
Panic bloomed in his chest. “Please… listen to me. I know who you are. This isn’t you. you wouldn’t really do it.” He said desperately, trying to reason with the man looking down at him. The silence he received back was as loud as any explosives. As a last resort, he spoke to troll the man, “You don’t have the stomach for it.” He laughed maniacally.
Finally, the figure moved. Slowly, with unhurried movements— almost with as much grace as a dance he had repeated a thousand times — he reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a matte black pistol.
Bang!
There was no hesitation. No words. Just a single shot which echoed in the quiet underground warehouse.
The bound man’s body dropped limply on the chair. It was a clear shot to the middle of his head. The only sound was the wet echo of blood hitting concrete.
A splash of red dotted the shooter’s cheek. Unbothered, he reached into his coat again — this time for a soft lavender handkerchief, embroidered at the corners were silver threads with initials: XL.
Almost with the same calm he had when he pulled the trigger, he dabbed the blood from his cheek with the handkerchief. Then folded the handkerchief into a neat square, and slipped it back inside his jacket.
The pistol was handed off to a nameless man in a black suit — no commands given, there was none needed. They all knew what to do.
As the shooter stepped out into the dark hallway, a guard, who had stuck close to him from the very beginning barked to the rest.
“Clean this up.”
After the short command to the rest of the minions, he quickly followed close behind their silent boss. The door creaked shut behind them.
And just like that, the room returned to silence.
Not even the spilled blood remained to remember what had just happened.
Sunlight spilled across the city like a tired sigh. Birds chirped outside the closed windows of XX university’s oldest lecture hall, the air conditioning whirring with life, and the low murmur of post-class chatter filled the air.
Snow Donovan packed up his notes with steady, practiced motions, somewhat like muscle memory gotten from repeated actions. The white noise of the students moving around him was blocked by his subconscious. He slowly focused on the task at hand.
“Zuzu!”
A warm hand clasped his shoulder. Snow didn’t flinch. He just slowly looked up.
Jamie, one of the few people who insisted on being Snow’s friend, grinned down at him — red hoodie, messy brown curls, and an energy of someone who didn’t believe that the world was full of evil. Even after Snow had tried to ignore him from the first moment they’ve known each other, Jamie didn’t back down. And ever since, he just kind of stuck with Snow.
Jamie’s lips curved upwards in a sly smile, “Bar tonight. Girls. Booze. And if you don’t come, I’ll cry real tears. Like full on tragic movie sobbing. Try me”
Snow blinked at his friend, his expression unreadable.
Jamie leaned closer mischievously.
“Zuzu” He whined. “I’m serious. You’ve got to show up. Use that Asian rizz, bro. You’ve got those assassin eyes and that mysterious high and mighty vibe. Girls actually eat that up”
Snow let out a low sigh.
“It’s Xue”
Jamie gave him a sheepish grin.
“Bro, I’ve tried. I butcher it every time. Shew, Sue, Zu….” Jamie looked at Snow with a defeated expression after trying to pronounce the Chinese word. “I’m sticking with Zuzu. Besides, it suits you.”
“Then call me Snow,” he replied flatly, unbothered by Jamie’s weak attempts to completely rage bait him.
Jamie blinked.
“Snow? Isn’t that kind of girly?”
Snow’s eyes twitched at his words.
“And Zuzu isn’t?”
Jamie stared at his friend for a beat — then laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “Damn. Touché.”
Snow didn’t smile, neither was he fazed from the man’s crude behaviour. He just nodded once and let Jamie talk himself in circles about the night out. He casually picked up the rest of his books and walked out the lecture hall, Jamie following closely behind.
At 5’11, with lean shoulders and a body like an Olympic swimmer, Snow looked effortless in black jeans and a loose white tee. His straight jet black hair was always tied in a low, messy bun. A few strands of stray hair framing his slanted, phoenix eyes — a subtle trait thanks to his Chinese heritage.
Snow stood out — even when he didn’t want to.
He wasn’t striking in the loud, golden-boy kind of way. He was quietly beautiful, the kind of handsome people noticed in glances, then kept stealing second looks.
But no one really knew him.
He didn’t go to parties. He didn’t drink. He didn’t flirt or fight or chase anything that wasn’t beneficial to him. He was simply apathetic to the rest of the world. Most students assumed that he was just some quiet foreign exchange student with a stick up his ass, while others thought he was some sort of secret genius. Jamie just liked him because he was one of the few people who tolerated him and because, in Jamie’s words, “You listen. That’s rare.”
Snow didn’t argue. He let people think what they wanted and was happy as long as they didn’t deeply bother him.
“I’ll go,” he said finally, shutting up Jamie’s broken tape of a mouth.
Jamie’s eyes lit up and exclaimed excitedly.
“Hell yeah! Zuzu’s gonna touch grass!”
A few hours passed and it was already evening. The bar was already loud when Snow got there.
The neon sign buzzed overhead — Serenity — Snow could admit that it looked quite fancy. Light, cool music poured through the open doors of the bar, the inside lit with warm, dim lights, the sound of laughter drifting along.
Snow stepped forward, casually adjusting the sleeves of his black button-down shirt, the light fabric creasing slightly against his forearms.
He looked down at his sleeves, unaware of his surroundings, and didn’t notice someone walking through the open door. He bumped into a person, shoulder firm and strong.
Snow paused and looked up at the person.
And just for a moment, time seemed to slow down.