Disclaimer: I do not own anything created by Ian Fleming/EON, such as the 00-section, M etc. They do not feature in this chapter (ha, just spoiled it for you) but keep that in mind for other chapters.

This is the first time I'm publishing my fan-fiction, and my first attempt at writing something serious as opposed to a parody.

The first cut is the hardest

The lights flashing, blinding. The people walking, talking. The city was alive even in the late hours. The notorious traffic has died down somewhat. Rise in oil prices have forced some people to change their habits. Others have done it a long time ago. Tired of the traffic, they have decided to take the sky train.

He observed the beautiful lights of the city, sparkling neon lights keeping the city awake at night. An old man with thick white hair patted the seat next to him, offering him to sit. He pretended not to notice the man. He did not need a seat. He cannot take a seat. He would bounce right off with his body shaking. He wiped his hand against his pants for the fifth time since the last station, his pants beginning to soak in the sweat coming off his hand. Some passengers began to look at him, puzzled as to why he did not take a seat in this relatively empty compartment, and why he had to keep wiping his sweating hand.

While it is the faster alternative, the train seems to move too slowly and too quickly at the same time for him. He was sweating. The eyes that gazed upon him brought him back to earth. He took a deep breath and ended up sitting down next to the old man. The moment he touched the seat, however, the intercom buzzed to life.

"Next station, Asoke; interchange with MRT"

The word Asoke nearly knocked him off his seat. He patted the outline of his jacket. It's there. He rubbed his hand against his pants again, and felt the train slowing down; too quickly, too slowly. The train came to a stop and simultaneously the intercom, like a judge at the end of a case, announced the station "Asoke".

"A" is a prefix in Thai, a negation. "Soke" comes from the Bali word "Soka" which means sadness. "Asoke" therefore means the absence of sadness. This station had irony written all over it, but then again, maybe not.

Does this man have a family? If so, someone will be sad by the end of the night. If not then it will really be Asoke

He realized that he was simply trying to distract himself. The beeps began to sound, the doors were closing. A small part of his mind told him to stay in the train and let this all slide. But what for? This is what he has come here to do. He had to sit in a plane for twelve hours, got cheated by a taxi on his way to his hotel and woke up with a killing hangover this morning. He had come too far to turn back. He lunged at the door, knocking a fat tourist entering with a small Thai woman over. He did not turn around to apologize. The fat tourist turned around, ready to drop an F-bomb but the doors have already closed.

Virtually alone on the platform, he took a deep breath and reached to tuck a comma of his dark-brown hair into its place. He started to walk down the stairs, his ticket ready to be returned. The walk was steady but when he approached the ticket machine, the thought of inserting the ticket into the machine froze him. It resembled stabbing someone. His hands tremble and it took several attempts for him to finally insert the ticket into the machine, catching the attention of the security guard. He noticed the guard walking towards him but luckily the ticket was in and he was on his way out. He smiled at the guard, who stepped back. He followed the pathway to the appropriate exit and down another path of stairs.

And there he was, standing at the entrance of Soi Cowboy; one of Bangkok's many red-light districts: a symphony of brothels, a circus of cheap prostitutes from impoverished backgrounds, looking to satisfy a "farang" for cash to send home. With nearly fifty bars to look into, this was going to be a long night. He looked at his watch: a few minutes to midnight. He would rather get this over and done with quickly. The hangover from the morning has not entirely died off yet. Only then was he beginning to feel a little stupid about last night. He thought drinking last night would somehow help him with this night. In the end, five martinis, two screwdrivers and three vodka shots only gave him a massive headache, as if his head was placed in the center of a collision involving two high speed trains.

He looked around. He was too impatient to search every bar. He asked himself what kind of a bar would his target be found in? Certainly not a cheap one. He was about to make his way into an expensive-looking bar when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar woman. She may be short, dark-skinned with dyed hair like the rest of the prostitutes around the area, but he recognized her from a photograph that was taken of his target with her last night. Surprisingly she was walking towards one of the cheaper bars. He followed her into the bar, with the women, and the ladyboys, at the gate staring at him.

The club was filled with a smelly air of sweat. A young man, probably gotten in with a fake ID, stumbled past him on his way to throwing up after having too many drinks. The music was pounding like a giant fist into everyone's heart. He did not let the young man distract him, and kept his eye on the girl who approached the bar. She told the bartender something, probably to order a drink. He quickly walked up and stopped the bartender.

"I'll have what she's having" He instructed, winking at the girl. The barman nodded and he took the empty seat next to the girl. She was looking somewhere else.

The barman reached into his bar and handed them a bottle of Thai beer. He cursed inside, beer was his Achilles' heel when it comes to drinking. He could never stand the taste, despite it having the least effect of any alcoholic beverages. At least now she's noticing him. She looked at him, up and down, then looked away. She was by no means pretty, but he had to get her attention.

"Two hundred for beer" The barman called for his attention. He raised his eyebrow. That was way overpriced, but he had to do what he had to do.

"How much for hers?" He asked, causing her to turn around to face him again

"Free. She works here."

"Capitalist pigs" He cursed inside as he handed the barman the money. He turned to her. She raised her bottle, a sign inviting him for a conversation.

He did not put his wallet away. Instead, he slipped her a five-hundred baht note.

"Not enough. I do 1000 per night."

"I don't want your services. I want your information. Where is he?" He slipped out a photo taken of her with a man. He was tall, with slight short, curly dark hair with tiger-like green eyes, which looked rather thin compared to his enlarged jaw and his fat nose. He body was ripped. He looks to be in his late thirties. Her presence in the picture meant there was no denying that she knew where he was. She could pass it off as having seen him a long time ago and having no idea where he was, but the date at the bottom-right hand corner says it all: last night.

But why? Why did she need to tell him where her last customer stayed? The money in her hand, though, got the better of her. Her customer did not seem like much harm, neither was this man. But she could also make this a win-win situation.

"I tell you outside. Too loud in here."

She told the barman that she would be right back and that he would not have to pay the usual bar fine of taking a girl out before closing time. The barman gave the man a dirty look, which he ignored. He followed the girl.

As they step out of the door, she slowly slipped her shoes off. It would be hard to run with high-heels. She did this very slowly so that he would not notice. First her right, pushing it against the door. It stuck a bit but after a little shake the shoe broke free. She then reached her bare right foot to the left…

A cold sensation suddenly hit the back, a small but chilling poke on the small of her back. She turned around and was horrified at the sight in the man's hand: a pistol with a silencer screwed firmly on it, his finger on the trigger.

"Nice try" He whispered with a smile. She quickly reached inside her pocket for her Swiss knife which she has always kept in case of an angry customer or an incident with foreign prostitutes, which have resulted in several deaths by shooting or stabbing in recent years due to an increase in Eastern European prostitutes operating in Thailand. She has never been in one of these incidents, but hears about it on a regular basis. Was this man one of the Eastern European pimps looking for revenge for her stealing a customer from one of his prostitutes? Couldn't be. She has barely had customers in the past few weeks. And what does this have to do with her previous customer? But reasoning was useless. The fact was that he has a gun pointed at the back, and she needed to do something.

She grabbed the knife out of her right pocket, switched the blade on, turned around and lunged the knife at his right shoulder, hoping to cause him to drop the gun without killing him, which might get her into a fair bit of trouble; sparking revenge, which will end up getting her killed. Even doing this, she might be signing her death sentence. He would probably be back to kill her.

Her thoughts stopped with her knife. Not by the muscles and bones of his shoulders, but by his left hand, clutching her fist with cheetah-like speed.

He shook his head like a parent knowing a child was making up lies for coming home late. Her eyes filled with horror. She was dead.

"All I want is his address"

"Westin. 1204."

He left her wrist go and put his gun back, but not without taking her knife.

"I'm sure 500 baht will get you a decent replacement" He said, and disappeared into the bright lights of the red-light district.

It was a relatively short walk to Westin hotel, but the walk seemed to have taken longer than the sky train. His hands were sweating again, this time worse as there was no air-conditioner, just the open tropical Bangkok heat which still burns you even at night.

Since he was wearing a jacket the hotel staff didn't question him. He got into an elevator and pressed the button for the twelfth floor. The doors were about to close when an Indian couple snuck in at the last moment. He cursed inside. He wanted to be alone, but then again, maybe not. The man, with a white turban, pressed the button indicating he was staying at the top floor suite and smiled at him, as if to show his status. He smiled back, relieving his tension somewhat as the elevator ascended with the soft music accompanying the low hum of the moving machine.

He closed his eyes, imagining the tall frame of his target, probably coming out in some sort of sleeping gown if not boxers thanks to the Bangkok heat. Or maybe he's outside. He knew what to do in that case too. He would break into the room and wait. At least that might give him some time to cool down too. What if his target is in there with another prostitute? What if his target has already checked out and flown back? The kind of business his target was in was not one that called for being in the same place for a long time. How would he react if a different face answered the door?

The elevator slowed down and before he could answer that last question, the door opened.

"See ya" whispered the Indian woman, out of courtesy rather than being sincere. The doors closed before he could say anything, but he was not planning to anyways

This new thought hit him like a bullet train. The last that anyone has seen of his target was last night. Twenty four hours is a long time in his business. One could technically be on the other side of the world by now.

He started the walk towards the room and was there before he knew it. The way the rooms were placed, he only passed one door before reaching 1204. This is it. He looked to the left, then to the right to make sure there was nobody. He looked up and found no security cameras. He decided there and then he would show up to his target empty handed. If someone else answered the door he could just apologize. If it was him, the target does not know who he was and he would still have the time to get his job done. He reached out for the doorbell and pressed it.

He waited patiently. Surely if his target was in his room he would be sleeping and would take some time to answer the door. Suddenly a soft beat started in his ear, it grew louder, and louder until he felt he was at a concert where the drummer was on steroids. He could not establish where the sound was coming from. It could have been from the construction site nearby. It could have been the sound of his own heart trembling in anticipation.

It never occurred to him that the beats were the footsteps of the target until the beats stopped and the door opened. The face that greeted him was an exact match to the photo he was given. The target was taller than him by quite a bit and was indeed only wearing his boxers. Those tiger-like green eyes were groggy. He was probably woken from a very deep sleep. The logic worked. If he spent last night with the prostitute and assuming he was alone tonight, he would be in a very deep sleep.

The job.

He reached into his jacket, his hands almost shaking, and produced what he has been keeping under it since the start of the night. He had not even touched it after putting it there, only tracing its outlines occasionally to make sure it was there. But this was it. He reached out and produced a silenced, fully loaded, safety unlocked Walther P99.

A thought crossed his mind: Did he actually unlock it?

Those tiger-like green eyes sprang to life, like a tiger ready to attack its nearest victim. The tiger noticed the hesitation and its animal instincts told him to live. Adrenaline shot to his arms, the tiger slapped the pistol out of the man, the victim. The victim's eyes too grew, in shock. The tiger had two choices, launch its fist at the helpless victim or reached for the gun, now on the floor, closer to the tiger, and give the victim a taste of his own lead.

Unlike the victim, the tiger did not hesitate. He dived straight to the floor, right hand reaching out for the handle of the shiny pistol. The tiger felt as if its hands were magnetic and someone the pistol was being pulled into its waiting hands. It knew the victim was still shocked.

It was shocked.

It was shocked when a stinging sensation suddenly erupted in his heart. It realized it only started its descend down to the pistol. Both of its feet were still on the ground and it was only leaning slightly forward before it was stopped by a knife. A cheap knife. A knife that only someone like a prostitute would possess, having brought it for a bargain price at some black market. Nevertheless, a knife that got the job done.

He wanted to let go, let the target, the tiger, and now the victim, fall onto the floor. He wanted to run. He knew where the elevator was. He wanted to get in, press the G button, run out, into a sky train- no, it was closed at this hour, into a taxi then, straight to Suvarnabhumi Airport and out the country. But he can't. The job was not finished yet.

He thought that the little monologue just now would keep him distracted until the victim's heart stopped beating. He was wrong. The eyelids still moved, still the last part fighting for its survival. But a bigger concern emerged in the form of his target's blood, some of which have already flown down to his boxers and were on its way to hitting the carpet. Switching his knife-holding hand to his left and using his slightly stronger right hand to carry the body, he tumbled his victim into his suite, using his right foot to shut the door. The door would not shut. It was held from shutting by the pistol which he dropped.

He let out a soft four lettered word and he reached his foot back to kick the pistol into the room, allowing the door to fully shut. When he turned back, the first drop already hit the floor and diluted the carpet.

Another four-lettered word, this time a bit louder. At least he was lucky the door to the bathroom was opened. He lifted the body up- no easy task, since the target was larger than him- and placed it- no, threw it- into the bath-tub.

He looked at his arms and thought he saw some stains of red blood on his jacket, something wet on his hands. He blinked. It wasn't there. If anything, the wetness on his hands could only be described as his hands sweating. But it was indeed getting hot. He took his jacket off, and, in what he felt was a ritual honoring the dead, placed it over his victim's face.

The face which he had only seen one photograph of, three days ago.

This was the face of "Thomas Bleeck" they told him. "Australian soldier who served during the Gulf War turned human trafficker, specializing in children sex slaves. Normally we would have him arrested, but he supplied services to several high-ranking members of the British and Australian governments and has threatened to expose their identities should he be arrested. Until then he could blackmail them with anything. For the sake of our national securities- Britain and Australian- we need him eliminated."

He knew it wouldn't be the last time this face of Thomas Bleeck would appear. It would come back to haunt him in his sleep. For the first cut, as the song goes, is the deepest, and the first kill is the hardest. The first cut is the hardest, in his case.

The lifeless Thomas Bleeck stared at him, confirming his fears. I will come back to haunt you, it said.

He undid the buttons of his shirt and walked back to the living room, then the bedroom, to make sure nobody else was there. He picked up his phone and called for the cleanup team, stationed in his hotel to get over and do their thing. He picked up his pistol, flicked the safety switch back on and placed it on a table. He'll let the cleanup team take care of it too. He did not use a single bullet, but at least the knife got the job done. Thank you Russian prostitutes.

In the victim's bedroom, he found his wallet, Thomas' wallet. Some power led him to open it even though he was not supposed to. He had to know.

And he found it. In the transparent pouch, a picture of Thomas with a woman. She leaned against his chest, smiling. They both were. She was much shorter than him. She had dark brown hair like him but her eyes were blue. Her face was rounder as opposed to his angular face. She skin was slightly lighter than his and her smile a little happier. He kept looking at her, because he did not want to look at him. He did not want to say sorry to him even though he deserved it.

But his face spoke, again "I'll never forgive you. You'll never forget me"

He closed his eyes, shook his head and looked at her again. Maybe she would accept his apology. It was useless asking for a dead man's forgiveness.

He had no idea who this woman was. His wife (which would explain the tropical setting behind them)? Girlfriend (which would explain they she held on so tightly)? Sister (which would explain their certain similarities)? She looked too old to be his daughter and too young to be his mother, but he did not rule out those possibilities either.

He carefully took the picture out and flipped it. On the back, in a girly handwriting he found the answer.

"Natalie" a heart "Thomas always" it was written in black ink, and probably slipped under the pillow as some anniversary, Valentine's, Christmas or birthday gift.

So someone would be feeling "Soka" in a few hours.

"I'm so sorry, Natalie" he whispered as he slipped the picture back into the wallet and closed it.