sicsacra

[sicsacra]

Scheduled

PROLOGUE

Today is a big day. A big day indeed. The chime of the door signals another visitor. The rich scent of freshly ground coffee beans fills the air, blending with the soft hum of quiet conversations. Sunlight spills through stained-glass windows, casting colorful reflections across the room. Vines drape overhead, adorned with delicate flowers, adding a touch of nature to the peaceful atmosphere. Anyone walking through the door would notice it immediately—the calm that seems to settle in the moment you step inside.

It’s 10:30 a.m. The breakfast rush has ended, and the morning crowd has dissipated. Only a handful of patrons remain, scattered across tables, engaged in private conversations, each feeling the quiet embrace of the café.

“I finished my coffee before you arrived. Please, order for your own sake.” The person with their covered face pointed to the seat across them.

“Wow, I just sat down. No introductions or pleasantries, hmm?” The woman said.

“I’m sorry, it’s against protocol for you to see even a hint of my face, so no eating nor drinking in front of you.” They apologized.

“I understand. And you’re sure you’re not hungry?” She tries to confirm.

“No, thank you.” They answered shortly.

The waiter approaches. “Good morning, welcome to Café Polaria. May I take your order?” He whipped out a small notepad and clicked his pen, ready to take the table’s order.

“Yes, please. I’ll have a warm cup of strawberry-peach chai latte, with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles on top. Thank you.” The woman said, the waiter nodded and looked toward the first customer at the table.

“I’m done, thank you.” The incognito person said.

The waiter smiled and assured her that her order would be taken care of.

“So, you’re Banshee, hmm? I have to admit, I got chills when I saw you sitting here in the corner.” The woman gave a nervous smile.

“Thank you. I trust you found my instructions easy to follow?” Banshee asked.

“Yes, I did. This area is unfamiliar to me, though I’ve lived in this city my whole life. This café has a cozy, calming vibe. That will make this conversation easier—your setting already does half the work in easing my tension.” She looked overhead to the plants draping overhead and to the stained-glass windows.

“I appreciate you noticing. Now, when I tap my cup, I want you to stop talking, or change the subject, immediately. Someone will be approaching our table. You understand?” They instructed.

“Understood. I think it’s time we talk about this work. Let’s cut to the chase. The client and the target are the same.” She paused.

“I see.” Their head tilted as they said it.

            Banshee knew exactly what it meant. This person wanted to commit some form of assisted suicide. It wasn’t an unfamiliar circumstance—others in the field had handled such cases before—but it was the first time it had landed in their lap.

They both took a deep breath, the air between them heavy with unspoken understanding.

A gentle tap on the cup.

“That was quick. This looks delicious, thank you so much,” the client said, her tone light as she smiled at the waiter placing the cup on the table.

“Enjoy. Just raise your hand if you need anything else.” The waiter smiled back, his demeanor warm and practiced, before moving to another table.

The client turned her attention back to Banshee, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “Now I’m wondering what you ordered. Their serving is impressive compared to my usual café’s.”

“Just your basic Americano for me,” Banshee replied, their tone measured.

She scooped a spoonful of whipped cream and popped it into her mouth, her expression momentarily brightening.

“Shall I fill you in on the details?” The client asked.

Banshee nodded, leaning slightly forward, their expression unreadable.

 “Next week…” She trailed off, the spoon swirling lazy circles through the cream. Her gaze drifted, as if seeing something far beyond the café.

Banshee tensed, their fingers brushing the edge of the cup.

“Is my birthday.” She looked back at them, her voice soft but steady. “I want it to happen a year after that. Maybe right after my celebration that year or something.”

The tension in Banshee’s chest eased, the weight of the request loosening. A year. That’s a luxury in this business. Time to plan, to perfect.

Most clients booked weeks or months in advance. A year was rare, a peculiar request for someone who seemed so certain of their decision.

Your typical target is a rival politician by next year’s election. If someone in power is threatened for their throne, contractors don’t wait for a year to paint a job, maybe about six to eight months before the election. There was that senator two years ago, taken out during an outdoor rally. It was orchestrated so perfectly, that everyone thought the shooter was a rival gang, a group outside of governance. Banshee knew better—the job was secured months in advance, and each detail was fine-tuned to avoid suspicion.

Every contractor in this field is hard to book. This isn’t an easy job where one can just shoot and run. No. It takes time to plan depending on how complicated a job is. So for a client to be entertained, they have to book a contractor early.

In special cases, where a client is in a hurry or desperation, that is when they have to pay extra. How extra? About three to five hundred percent from the base price. The stress is high for the contractor but the complaints are shushed when the money knots are rolling in.

“So, I suppose you can only give me a date today and how you want it to go, right? Also the reservation fee?” Banshee questioned.

She nodded, the faint clink of her spoon punctuating the silence. “My birthday is Saturday next week. I want it on the same date next year. Are you available then?”

“This early in the game, yes. I’ll make sure nothing is on my calendar nearing that date.”

She smirked faintly, leaning back. “Game. Hmm… I suppose it’s all just a game to you, huh? I’m not reprimanding you or anything. I just find it amusing that you think of it as such. I suppose you have to make it entertaining in one way or another to make it—”

“Feel lighter. Yes,” Banshee interrupted, their voice low.

She smiled, taking a deliberate sip of her drink. The warmth of the chai belied the chill settling between them—a quiet understanding that this was only the beginning. https://www.wattpad.com/story/396439472-scheduled