“Once, I went to kill a man,” he starts.

Tate has been my friend and coworker for all of two weeks. I couldn’t tell you his real name, if his face had surgery or not, or if his style is his or a chance to throw me off his true self. I know nothing real from the man I call Tate — except his stories.

Those have a weight of truth so heavy, I’ll be forced to leave them behind forever. Today will be the last day I ever see Tate. And remembering these days together won’t just hurt when I miss him, but it will be impossible to ever find him again.

Tate could become a Ron or a Lenard tomorrow. He could have a new face, new hair, or a new skin color in mere hours. As far as I care, Tate is the imaginary friend hired to keep me company.

Our laughter mixed together will be hard to forget. No I couldn’t tell you much about Tate. Favorite color?

No idea. But his darkest secrets? Those I knew well. Every day for these past two weeks, he has told me about his clients and the assignments they give him.

“But when I got there, the man was so scared he fell backwards,” Tate grins. “And he hit his head on the marble counter corner.” He snaps his fingers. “He died instantly.”

“Whoa,” I gasp. “I wish my assignments were as easy at that.” Laughter escapes me.

The van we are in to do surveillance together reeks of sandwich farts and beer. On the outside, it promotes AC repair. On the inside, I’m pretty sure Tate should be dairy free — it’s the cheese from the sandwiches. It’s ironic how the air inside suffocates me.

“Easy, yes,” he nods. “But my client was specific with how he wanted him to die.”

“Ahh.” I see where the problem lies. Our ‘clients’ pay us for the details. “What way did he want him dead?”

“My client wanted him stabbed twenty two times. So I didn’t hesitate. I pulled out my knife and went to work.”

“Oh no.” I see the next problem. I’m going to miss this: work gossip and silly mistakes.

If I worked at a restaurant, I’d giggle to my coworkers about how a customer lost his teeth in our bread because of how old he was. Or maybe I’d gossip about a proposal where the woman said no because she was already married. This was as close to a funny story like that as I would get.

“Did the wife walk in?” I jump ahead.

“Nope.”

“Kid?” I cringe. That would suck.

“Nah ah.” He frowns.

“I give up.” I don’t know who could be worse. If our faces are seen during a ‘compromising scene’ like this one, our protocol is to kill that person too and dissappear for forty eight hours.

“The client.”

“Holy sh..” laughter overwhelms me. “And he saw you as real as it could get.” Tears come out of my eyes. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” His snarky voice has disbelief but it holds the fun in it too. “I slit the man’s throat before he could mutter a word.” He shrugs.

My head buries itself in my hands, attempting to muffle the laughter. Killing a client is more than bad juju or bad business. It’s a death sentence.

Tate has become the most interesting and stinky assassin I’ve ever worked together with. It’s a shame these moments will live and die in this van. We could be friends out there.

Or maybe something more. Tate is greater than just mysterious good looks. He is funny and smart and an amazing assassin. But he makes me feel valued and appreciated. He makes me feel like more than just a walking death sentence.

But the system is the system for a reason. We make deaths look specific ways not for ourselves but for those that see the bigger picture. The world doesn’t believe in assassins. Not really.

Today, the modern world believes the government isn’t capable of things like us anymore. Assassins are of the past, outdated and now imaginary. We are the stories you read for fun.

It stays that way, because we’re good at our job. Only the best survive. And I’m more than the best.

My knife finds Tate’s throat before my laughter stops. His eyes go wide, but not surprised. He’s been sloppy for the last time.

He knew someone would come clean up his mess. I’m the one they call when things go sideways. When ghosts get too loud. Or when assassins forget we’re rumors.

It’s always a different scenario. This time? I got two weeks in a van with a ghost who told great stories.

And like all ghosts, he’ll disappear. Just one more secret the city never heard. One more name I won’t remember.

But maybe… one laugh I won’t forget.