Phantoms | jjk.

[05]: Gunwoman

Here we go again.

Just as you tighten the harness holding you strapped to the building that was preventing you from plummeting fifty-odd floors to an inescapable death—you daydream for just a second, about what it would be like if you just cut the line.

Death was always pretty fascinating to you, as someone who never had the freedom to dream about it.

It was something different. Completely uncharted, and undocumented.

You didn't have the privilege of experiencing new things very often. Your life had become a repetitive loop of gloomy torment. It was like you were living the same day every day, like your life was a broken, scratchy record played and controlled by your boss.

And to set the scene for this song—you were carefully balanced and slowly tracking your way down the glass window panes of a fifty-story building, in centre Seoul.

It was late at night.

The city was sleeping, aside from you.

You were manoeuvring quick and skilfully, to get yourself to the perfect perching height for your upcoming attack. For the tenaciousness of this task, you had to have a good view.

Clad finely from head-to-toe, in all black protective gear. Belts and holsters kept you secure, giving you the freedom to move swiftly. Your earpiece chatter was not nearly loud enough to drown out the muffled screams of the wind that was battling against you, as if it wanted you to fall.

At the mere thought of that, you were suddenly struck by one particularly hefty wind. It was strong enough to make your boots lose grip against the glass.

Your feet slip out from under you, the weight imbalance swinging you around. You choked back a huff of pain and shock, as your back slams against the unforgiving window behind you.

You were dangling from the line, desperately clutching onto it as you waited for the wave of angry winds to cease. And only a few seconds later, it did. Tactfully, you turn yourself around, stabilising your footing against the side of the building, and suck in a deep breath.

Your clothes ruffled violently in the wind, and the metal gear on your tool belt clanged together. With an eye roll, you pressed the button on the intercom speaker in your ear, before speaking.

"Have we got eyes yet?"

"No, not on Song."

A coworker. But there was worlds of difference between you and her, in terms of both skill, and status.

You recognised her unhealthy, croaky voice. It was one middle-aged woman who was working behind the computer and vigorously overriding all the neighbouring cameras of the floor inside the building, to closely monitor and analyse your movements.