Killing People is Kinda Scientific Right?

On the training ground's boxing ring, the coach, wearing punch mitts on both hands, steadily absorbed Eitan's blows.

Eitan adjusted his breathing, then resumed his combination.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!!

A sharp right jab landed squarely on the mitt, followed by a heavy left punch that made the coach's shoulder sway under the impact. Just as the coach stepped back to regain balance, Eitan had already shifted his stance, ready for another strike.

"Good rhythm—again!"

Clapping the mitts together, the coach steadied himself and held position.

Eitan's rhythm was fast and consistent. Contrary to his refined and calm appearance, every strike landed with force and precision.

Through the thick padding, the coach could still feel the force in his bones. Again and again, he had to reset his balance to absorb the impact.

The training continued for another half hour.

Only when the coach's arms began to ache did Eitan finally unwrap his fists and let out a light breath. Fine beads of sweat shimmered on his forehead.

But his breathing remained even.

He casually brushed his damp hair back, stepped down from the ring, and picked up a grapefruit-flavored energy drink. Cold, crisp—just the way he liked it.

"Coach, five-minute break and then we keep going?"

"…That's enough for today."

"Ah, alright. Thanks for the session."

Hamada Daisei.

That was the name he had once written in Eitan's notebook.

Still in the ring, Hamada removed the mitts and exhaled deeply, his gaze complicated as he watched Eitan sipping his drink and checking his phone.

This guy…

Despite his gentle features, his physical ability and stamina were beyond normal. He picked things up at an unnatural speed.

Ring-ring~ Ring-ring~

Eitan's phone rang. He answered it, bringing it to his ear.

"Tonight. 10:30 PM. Same bar," came Gin's cold voice.

"Understood."

As expected, no farewell—Gin hung up immediately.

Eitan turned and walked into the locker room to shower.

The Organization's training facility was fully equipped—shooting ranges, sparring rings, even a swimming pool for endurance work. He could technically take a gun from the range, but that would be far too conspicuous for his current position.

---

10:30 PM — Cocktail Bar, Daikoku Building

A familiar scene.

When Eitan walked in right on time, Gin and Vodka were already seated at their usual spot near the bar. The bartender today, however, was a new face.

"Yo," Vodka said, raising a hand in greeting.

"Good evening," Eitan replied as he sat down. "Gin. Mr. Vodka."

Gin smoked in silence.

Vodka blinked.

Why Gin by name, but I get "Mr. Vodka"…?

The honorific left a strange taste in his mouth, but he didn't press it.

Meanwhile, Eitan smiled and casually glanced over the drink menu. Before he could make a choice, the bartender placed a glass in front of him.

Clear liquid, served over a few pieces of ice in a short rocks glass.

"Cointreau. Cointreau," Gin said. "A distilled sweet liqueur that originated in France during the early 18th century. Strong, yet fruity. A clean orange profile, subtle sweetness. Mixable—but also good straight."

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. His green eyes locked onto Eitan as he grinned faintly.

"That's your codename."

"…Cointreau, huh."

Eitan picked up the glass and took a small sip.

Sweetness hit first.

Then came the bold alcoholic burn, followed by a mild floral note and lingering citrus. The aftertaste carried the distinct bittersweetness of a high-proof liqueur, with a sharp orange zest bite.

Gin chuckled.

In the Organization, male codenames were based on distilled spirits. Female members were named after wines or fruit liqueurs.

Cointreau suited Eitan perfectly.

His polite demeanor and good looks gave the impression of sweetness—but at his core, he was a distilled weapon, refined and deadly.

"Congratulations," Vodka added after finishing his own drink. "From today on, you're Cointreau."

"Hmm… having a codename feels strange."

"…"

"Will this change anything for me?"

Eitan set the glass down. Honestly, he hadn't expected the name to come this soon.

"It does," Gin replied. "You'll gain more access to the Organization's internal systems. No more surveillance watching your every move. You'll also be eligible for special funds… and can assign junior operatives if the situation calls for it."

"Sounds pretty good."

"That man has high hopes for your abilities and approves of the planning around your public identity. Don't disappoint him…"

In truth, if Gin hadn't witnessed Eitan's so-called "accidental killing" on the highway that night, he probably wouldn't have recommended him to the Boss so quickly.

Wakamatsu Toshihide's situation had already been investigated.

The very night the incident occurred, Eitan had arranged the scenario of "killing in self-defense" on his behalf...

Could it be that, for this guy, even people could be staged as part of an "accident"?

Still, this only confirmed something for Gin: Eitan's moral boundaries were very flexible. He wasn't like those rats who infiltrated the Organization but hesitated to kill unless absolutely necessary. Since his identity checked out and his abilities were undeniably useful, Gin had no reason to hold back in promoting him.

"In any case, I just need to do my job well." Eitan lifted his glass, sipping slowly. "Oh, by the way, the Organization isn't still trying to boost my public reputation, are they?"

"No."

"That's good."

There were too many moles hidden within the Organization.

While Eitan didn't plan to climb to the top, those spies—unaware of his real intentions—might interpret things differently. If the Organization kept spotlighting him too much, it would definitely attract unwanted attention from intelligence groups.

If only I had the Eyes of Death, he thought. Everything would be so much simpler.

For now, he'd continue lying low… until he had all the faces and real names of the Organization's higher-ups.

---

Later that night…

Midway through their drinks, Gin stood up and left.

As he walked toward the restroom, Vodka instinctively turned to follow… but hesitated. It felt awkward.

Now it was just the two of them—Eitan and Vodka—left quietly drinking at the bar.

Under the dim lighting, the bartender wiped glasses in silence behind the counter. Eitan glanced at the colorful array of bottles, amused, while Vodka sat motionless, long finished with his drink, still holding the empty glass.

It really looked like a glass, he thought.

"Mr. Vodka."

"Huh?"

Vodka snapped to attention at once. His reaction surprised Eitan slightly.

Realizing he had responded too quickly, Vodka cleared his throat. "What is it?"

"Got any drink recommendations?"

"Recommendations?"

Relieved it was just small talk, Vodka relaxed a bit. "I usually go for a Vodka Martini."

"A drink named after your codename?"

"Yeah. Most of us in the Organization drink cocktails based on our own names," Vodka explained.

He waved to the bartender for another round.

Eitan nodded in understanding.

It made sense. In a group where codenames carried weight, the agents were probably so used to drinks tied to their aliases that they developed a taste for them—both symbolically and out of habit.

A fresh Vodka Martini was served promptly.

As Vodka took his glass, Eitan noticed something peculiar—his eyes, hidden behind the signature sunglasses, never shifted. He didn't look left, right, or at Eitan. Only at the drink.

Vodka was… uncomfortable.

No, afraid might be more accurate.

Cointreau—this alias now tied to Eitan—was a name Vodka wouldn't forget anytime soon.

The way he killed… it wasn't normal.

His targets acted out their roles exactly as designed, like pieces in a clockwork tragedy. By the time they realized what was happening—if ever—it was already too late.

Their deaths were precise, untraceable, and clean.

Their boss once speculated that Eitan's observation skills might be downright inhuman. To turn something as mundane as a university squabble into a perfect frame job? It bordered on mind control.

But more than anything, Vodka believed it was his mind that was twisted.

That ever-present smile? Too perfect. It had to be a mask—one hiding something far darker underneath.

And he wasn't about to test the theory.

After all… the last guy who got on Cointreau's bad side ended up a murderer on national TV. Vodka had no intention of finding himself someday swerving off the road—into a steel pole—because of a "coincidence."

Just thinking about it made the back of his neck prickle.

"Mr. Vodka."

"…You can just call me Vodka."

He didn't want Eitan to keep observing him like a hawk. But at the same time, he was afraid not to respond. What if Eitan took offense?

"But why do you call the boss just 'Gin,' and call me 'Mr. Vodka'?"

"Because Gin doesn't care whether people use honorifics, so I don't bother."

So you think I care about that kind of thing?

Vodka began to suspect Eitan was trying to sow discord between him and Gin.

"What's Mr. Vodka's full name?"

"…Why do you want to know that?"

"I have a habit of collecting names." Eitan pulled out a small notebook and a pen, smiling gently. "A name is the most basic form of understanding someone. Outside, people start by exchanging names, right? And Mr. Vodka already knows mine is Eitan."

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