The hand, the feet, and the mind

"Tsk."

I emptied my cup and placed it on the rough tabletop.

"Now that you've had your fun, do you mind telling me what brought you here? I don’t expect an assassin of your caliber to just walk up to me with nothing in mind other than insulting me."

"That could have been the case."

"Hah, I’ve known you for more than ten years now. Don’t fuck with me."

"Ah, as sharp as usual."

His face shifted from smug to a sly coldness as he looked at me—the kind that indicated he had thought of something diabolical again.

"We have a target."

"Target?"

"Yes, a Demon Lord. Those cruel pigs."

There was a moment of silence between us, and he didn’t intend to break it.

From the tone in which he said that, he didn’t seem to be joking anymore. I looked around the bar; most had already left, and it was only filled by a few people.

"Are you sure we’re supposed to be talking about that here?"

"That can be argued."

"Let’s not make the pigs listen now."

"I agree."