Ivy's Bitter Poison

Chapter One

IVY

A lingering sense of dread enveloped me in its cold embrace. The feeling danced upon the smoothness of my skin, crawling slowly up my arms and eventually choking my slender neck. I couldn't breathe. My vision began to blur, my brain unable to function fully and solely focused on trying to stay conscious. White noise screamed into my ears, and a black fog overtook my vision. I couldn't fight it anymore. My legs buckled underneath my weight, and the last thing I could process was the cold tile catching me as I fell.

~~~

Click. Click. Click. Click. The tapping of my black suede boots echoes on the streets as I make my way home from an adventurous night out. The word 'adventurous' alluding to the fact that I ran a few errands after my job got canceled at the last minute. A plastic bag swings back and forth in my small hand, hitting the side of my obsidian hue coat. Inside, the grocery bag contains a tin of hazelnut coffee from a small cafe a few blocks from my home and a few apricots from the local grocery store. My perfectly-plain brown hair cascades to my mid-back; the slightest waves are present in the locks. It matches my chocolate brown eyes, complementing the chestnut sweater dress hugging my athletic figure. My warm medium-deep beige skin tone peeks through my stockings.

My boss always tells me that I would be the perfect femme-fatale; young, charming, skillful, clever, and bold. In most work settings, this wouldn't be something one would hear within the professional surroundings; however, it's relatively common to be exposed to these whispers when you're an assassin. I prefer to use my... other assets. My target— an upcoming businessman who is about to take over a hotel chain due to his late father's untimely demise. He was supposed to attend an indoctrinating preliminary meeting at their only lavish hotel in the area, Eden's. He never showed, and I got a notification that my target stayed home feeling unwell from a colleague of mine, Shadow. The target's penthouse is too heavily guarded to attempt an assassination with no extra planning, so we called it a night. Until next time, John Garner.

Before I knew it, I had already made it back home. The old brick building sheltered several different families within⁠— but most importantly, my own. The whole reason I even joined the organization– to make sure I could support my siblings and my poor father, who refuses to retire from his job from hell. I walk up the messy concrete steps and open the door, revealing a shared hall space. A few mailboxes, four to be exact, are embedded into the wall. Two doors confront me; one to my right and the other to my left⁠, a bit further down after the mail. Following the left door, a set of rickety-rusty stairs travels up to the next floor. I cross the vinyl ground to traverse up the stairs, the familiar creeks as I mount each metallic step. My feet instantly turn about to my left as I make for the furthest door after reaching the top of the stairs.

After placing my hand atop the golden knob, I twisted it, and to my disappointment, it swung right open. They forgot to lock the place up again. I walk into the dark entryway and take off my stylish boots before placing them onto a wire rack by the door. I do the same with my coat and make sure to lock the door behind me. I guide myself through the small hallway to the kitchen. I proceed with caution, for the off chance that it wasn't my family being irresponsible again. My family should be more careful about leaving the door unlocked, but I guess it's because they're still not used to actually having one .

A dim light illuminates the kitchen, and there was my father preparing meals for the next day. He looks so tired and disheveled from whatever his day had entailed, but there he is, still taking care of all of his children even when I tell him he can take it easy now. The kitchen is decently sized for the place we live in, it even has a small island and enough cabinets to hold the food I buy for everyone: me, my father, two growing girls, and a demanding brother.

My eyes wander to my father's calloused hands. If I didn't know any better, I would think that the cuts and scrapes on his hands were from the kitchen tools, a result of his own clumsiness. Except I did know better. Those were from his work at the factory again. The one with barely any legal guidelines or regulations but just always seems to get by the law. Those machines are not safe for people to be working with, and I'm scared he'll lose his hand one day. I set the bag with my groceries down on the counter in front of him.