The sky was full of rain clouds, coloring the day in shades of black.

At one of the cheap tables of a sandwich shop, a chic man had sat cross-legged as the mild rain washed the dull street around him.

His shiny leather shoes and black trench coat seemed to clash with the humble surroundings. But they matched well enough with the white parasol that shielded him from Heaven's wrath.

Hidden behind the latest newspaper, his face could not be seen. But one could tell that he was certainly an enigma.

He was like a man out of a painting; he made his surroundings look motionless.

In this seemingly static world, the door to one of the buildings opened, shattering the illusion. An unkempt man—possibly in his early forties—stepped out. He glanced around cautiously and started walking in the opposite direction.

Observing him over the edge of his paper, the man from the sandwich shop slowly stood up. He put down the paper, picked up his folding umbrella, and walked out into the rain.

With light steps, he followed the unkempt man from a distance.

His black tie and designer suit peeked from underneath his coat. But his face remained obstructed—this time, by the umbrella.

Having traveled some distance, the unkempt man finally noticed his pursuer. He had foreseen this scenario, and he had dreaded this day. No matter how much he tried to deny it, his fears had come true.

With trembling fingers and ragged breaths, he quickened his steps. He had to get away as far as he could without alerting his pursuer. Once he was around the corner, he could start running.

Alas, that was not to be.

Dressed in black, a pair of tall men stepped out from around the corner, blocking his path.

The middle-aged man glanced around.

His pursuer hadn't slowed down.

Trepidation clawed at his neck, and his brain screamed at his legs to dash. So he dashed—into the narrow alley to his left.

It was his only hope. And for a moment, survival seemed entirely possible.

But a few more steps, and he came to a grim realization: there was no escape.

Even this narrow, desolate path was blocked by men wearing black.

His lips shook as he tried to deny the reality, but his sanity would not allow it. In the end, he could do nothing but pity himself.

The frighteningly light steps approaching from behind held a terror that could not be overstated. The insignificant sound of shoes against a wet stone surface had never sounded so terrifying before.

With horrified expression, he hesitantly looked behind.

What stared back was a pair of self-indulgent amber eyes. Everything about the young man they belonged to—his sophisticated yet slightly long hair, his red lips, the way he walked—felt immoral and ominous.

"No, please…" the man mumbled.

But his pursuer didn't say anything.

Quietly, he took out a pair of black gloves from the inner pocket of his coat. Slowly, he put them on. Even such a simple action of his held grace.

"Please, I beg you!" the middle-aged man screamed, desperate beyond words. "Asmodeus… Mr. Binsfeld, please!"

One of the men following Asmodeus Binsfeld stepped forward and handed him an object wrapped in black cloth.

Asmodeus unwrapped the cloth to reveal a revolver. He checked the chamber to find it loaded.

Satisfied, he handed the umbrella to his subordinate before taking a step forward.

Nothing was shielding him from the rain anymore. Within seconds, his hair was wet. Even his lovely tie wasn't spared.

Nevertheless, he preferred to do it himself.

"No, please no," the cornered man muttered.

HIs face carried a mixture of dread, agony, and agitation.

"Why are you doing this?" he whimpered.

But Asmodeus didn't answer.

Now only a couple of steps away, he pulled back the gun's hammer and observed the man with an apathetic gaze. It carried neither hostility nor interest.

"Look where I have to live now," the unkempt man cried in a pathetic, pleading manner. "Your gambling houses have ruined me! You have broken me—taken my everything! What more do you want?"

There was a sense of injustice in his voice. Tears trickled down his cheeks as death approached near.

"I promise I'll pay back—"

But his plea was interrupted as Asmodeus kicked him hard in the knee. It made him trip and fall, his face inches away from the wet stone.

Reluctantly, he looked up—only to find the barrel of the gun pointed sharply at his forehead.

The last thing he saw was Asmodeus's unimpressed expression.

A single gunshot rang out, and the man was no more.

As the puddles of rain and splatters of blood mixed together, the execution came to a perfect end.

Staring down at the body, Asmodeus's face remained unflinching.

He handed over the revolver to his subordinate before gesturing for the rest to clean the mess.

About to turn around and leave, he was interrupted by one of his men who was emptying the dead man's pockets. None of the belongings were of significant value. But a ring of keys did stand out.

Asmodeus picked it up.

Umbrella in hand and a pair of subordinates following closely behind, he walked away from the site of execution.

All the while, the keys in his hand kept jingling in the rain.

"Cut!" Director Lee yelled after a moment of silence.

He excitedly jumped from his seat.

"That was perfect," he said, rushing towards a drenched Averie. "What a thrilling scene!"

Averie discussed some things with him before approaching Hyerin, who was eavesdropping on the crew.

"That was a good take, wasn't it?" one of the camera crew said.

"Man, this shot is great," exclaimed another one.

"The close-up when his face is revealed was so breathtaking." A member of the makeup crew shivered. "I kept staring into his scary eyes."

"Once post-production is done with it, it will be gold," praised another.

Listening to them, Hyerin felt needlessly shy.

"You were so cool," she said to Averie.

Repeatedly, she praised and pestered him.

But the good man simply ignored her. He needed to film the next shot of the scene.

After fifteen minutes, they were ready to film again.

"Turnover," the AD announced.

After a second of complete silence on the set, he called, "Sound."

"Speed," replied the sound mixer.

"Scene 11, Beautiful, Take 1," read the second AC.

"Rolling," replied the first AC.

The jaws of the slate were clapped shut.

"Action!" yelled the director.