Pursuit
in the depth of a bustling city, a shadowy figure pursues his target.
- Date : 25.01.23
He is little more than a shadow, inhabiting the spaces between spaces, gripping the edge of existence by the skin of his teeth.
Precisely the way he likes it.
Spectre. Ghost. Nebulous.
He exists in the paper-thin space in the milky corner of people’s eyes, never settling still, never quite allowing anyone a full glimpse.
He keeps to the edges of this huge city, down by the seedy bars and the local markets and in between the cracks in buildings - the buzzing maze of Mong Kok and its perpetual rain-shimmered streets.
Too loud. Too much. The chatter, the Cantopop, and the whiny mopeds crunch on his nervous system.
The air is swamp hot. His collar sticks to his neck, hair damp and black along his temples.
Muggy from recent rain, the air is packed with life; teeming and clouded with throat-tickling spices from the food stalls, pungent and swirled with the spewing of bitter, smoky engines. It all burns bright between the sprawling concrete buildings.
Where he stands, he’s ducked out of the last of the tropical rain that drips down the uneven gutters and roof tiles from above.
He’s nursing an icy San Miguel tucked out of plain sight, concealed by the ramble of shabby food stalls selling curried fish eggs, snake soup, and fermenting tofu.
The beer is brutally cold, and condensation drips numb on his hands. The bar that masks him is little more than a hatch in the wall, filthy and cheap, stinking of stale sweat. The grunting male patrons sit on cracking red plastic chairs and ignore him to play mahjong.
As far as they’re concerned, he’s just another pale new face in an endless soup of tourists - they assume he’s just drinking in the noise and neon heat of their home city.
Only he’s not here for pleasantries.
His eye is on the wall of buildings before him, spread clunky and shambled opposite the street.
He swigs back another mouthful, sight locked on one particular doorway - one that is peeling with mucky pink paint and gaudy red bulbs across the street.
He’ll bide his time. He knows who he’s looking for. He tailed them here, weaving stalls and ducking through shortcuts, disguised by shops. He masks himself in the city, always staying half-hidden.
His target is clueless. No idea he’s being followed.
This hunting nature is written into him so deep it might as well be tattooed onto his soul, like black ink leeching onto the clean white of his bones.
There aren’t many like him. None quite as skilled or as efficient. When people ask what his line of work is, he lies through his shining teeth.
“Sales,” he says and then smirks with those pillowy lips.