Here is the English translation with quotation marks added to every dialogue.
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It must have been noon that day. The sun bathed Gallion Street in a timid light, as if hesitating to impose itself, and the residents went about their peaceful business. Shutters were opening, children ran along the sidewalk arguing over a punctured ball, and the smell of warm bread drifted from the nearby bakery.
Outside a restaurant, sheltered by a faded parasol, a man in his thirties was sitting. His black, shiny hair, gently slicked back, absorbed the shadows. He wore a comfortable yet not sloppy black three-piece suit, and his olive complexion seemed almost pale under the narrow shade. The wrought-iron chair creaked softly whenever he shifted position, without him paying it any mind.
An open book in his hands, he read slowly, savoring each sentence. The novel belonged to a certain author whose name appeared on the corner of the black-and-red cover: Ramiel. Sometimes he would look up to observe a pigeon venturing too close to the tables, then his dark brown, almost black eyes would return to the printed lines.
In front of him, a porcelain cup was still steaming. The black coffee gave off a dense, bitter aroma that made him smile. He raised the cup to his lips, took a calm, attentive sip, as if listening to a musical note. What a beautiful Friday, he thought. I love this day so much. The hot liquid flowed into him, mingled with the quiet pleasure of being nowhere else.
Time passed smoothly. He wasn't really reading anymore; he was simply existing within this pause, letting the neighborhood buzz around him.
Then the scraping of a chair pulled across the pavement roused him from his stupor. An elderly man, perhaps in his sixties, sat down at his table uninvited, with the familiarity of someone who does this often. The newcomer wore a brown striped shirt, black pants, and square glasses with rounded corners on his nose. His ash-gray hair mixed with a few brown strands, like memories that refuse to fade.
"Good morning, Anathel," he said in a soft voice, tinged with an ancient melancholy.
The man in the black suit set his book down on the glass table. The cover tapped weakly against the surface. A genuine smile split his face.
"Good morning, Father."
The old man — Father Wilson — let out a resigned sigh.
"How much longer do you plan to call me 'Father'?"
"Because you are a priest, Father. I can't afford to offend God any further. Especially since I've already committed quite enough crimes as it is."
Anathel's tone was relaxed, almost mocking. He had this way of speaking that turned any admission into banter.
Wilson habitually adjusted his glasses on his nose, as if trying to restore some order to the conversation.
"I think I've committed enough sins myself no longer to consider myself a man of God," he murmured, gazing at a distant point down the street.
Anathel didn't respond. He took another sip of coffee, careful to finish the cup before it cooled. The porcelain clinked lightly against the saucer when he set it down.
He leaned forward on the table, interlacing his fingers.
"I imagine you called me about a job?"
Wilson's smile turned bitter.
"Unfortunately, yes."
"What is it, Father?"
Anathel's smile widened, mocking. His eyes shone with emptiness under the shadow of the parasol, and Wilson felt a familiar unease creep into his chest. He hated that look. He turned his head away, picked up a black briefcase from beside his foot, turned it toward Anathel, and opened it, unconcerned about passersby.
Inside, a stack of documents was slipped to one side. On the other, a thick white card, its texture and particular sheen catching the eye. Anathel ignored the card. He took out the papers, snapped the briefcase shut with a quick gesture, and pushed it aside.
"I'm listening," he said, flipping through the first pages.
Taking advantage of the silence, Wilson hailed the waiter with a wave and ordered a café au lait with some pastries. The smell of Anathel's coffee had made him want some.
Anathel calmly looked through the documents. A frown would sometimes crease his brow. He touched his chin with his fingertips, tapped the glass table. Occasionally, he muttered a name, a number.
"Andrew Stephenson, owner of the Lust and Greed casino, in Rayan Silver…" he read under his breath.
A waiter set down a steaming cup in front of Wilson and a plate of pastries. The priest thanked him with a nod and began to pour the milk with calculated slowness.
"The mission must be completed before Sunday," he said. "Direct order from LOVE."
He stirred his coffee, watching the brown swirl.
"I don't know yet why they specifically requested you for this job. But, knowing you, you should handle it easily."
Anathel finished his coffee, wiped his lips with the tip of his napkin. He gave a faint smile.
"That's funny, calling me in for a simple assassination mission. I'm just one of their best operatives… nothing exceptional."
He paused. His thumb stroked the rim of the empty cup.
"Just for some stupid territorial dispute, they want to send people to the slaughter…"
"Henry Penerith is very easy to provoke," Wilson commented, biting into a pastry. "He has a quick temper."
Anathel shot him a sideways glance.
"You should avoid sugar, at your age, Father."
"My blood pressure is perfectly fine, I'll have you know," Wilson replied, his tone icy.
A brief silence hung between them, almost complicit. Then Anathel resumed reading, and Wilson explained what the pages didn't say: Henry Penerith, owner of a chain of seven restaurants scattered across a part of Hayros, had recently gone underground. He had influential connections, amassed over the years and across dinner tables. His idea to open a first club in Rayan Silver encroached directly on Andrew Stephenson's territory, who saw it as a threat to his profits, already declining in recent months. Andrew had then waged a three-week campaign of harassment. And Penerith, pushed to the brink, had contacted LOVE to remove the pebble from his shoe.
Anathel listened, but his eyes still scanned the documents. He stopped on a photograph slipped between two reports: a brunette woman, with a sharp gaze.
"Andrew Stephenson is constantly protected by a woman," Wilson continued. "A certain Tynim. Former special forces from the country of Antros. According to our information, she has already prevented twelve assassination attempts against him. Twelve. Running a casino means accommodating the dark side of humanity… and sometimes, you need someone to keep the light at bay."
Anathel put the photo down and looked up. An amused smirk played on his lips.
"She's cute. I already like her, this Tynim."
Wilson didn't react. He was finishing his pastry in silence, his mouth full of sweet taste and bitter thoughts.
Suddenly, Anathel changed the subject, like turning onto an empty street.
"Tell me, Father… How is Hailen?"
The name struck Wilson in the gut. He paused, the coffee cup halfway to his lips. A long shiver ran through his shoulders.
"Why are you asking about her? And why ask me? You know perfectly well we never see her, that she's always under the Boss's direct orders."
Anathel's expression, however, remained serene, almost joyful. A dark joy.
"I saw her recently. LOVE's number one. The most terrifying assassin."
He let the sentence drop like a stone into calm water, then fixed his eyes on Wilson's. His gaze was that of a bottomless well, an emptiness that probed the soul.
"Father, if I'm considered one of the best assassins, where exactly do I rank?"
Wilson took a sip of coffee to buy time. The liquid was still lukewarm.
"I'd say among the top five. But not fifth."
"And Hailen?"
This time, the old priest didn't hesitate. His voice became clear, factual, as if reciting a truth beyond understanding.
"First. Without a doubt. Even if you spent hundreds of years doing missions for LOVE, she would still be light-years ahead of you, or anyone else."
Anathel's smile slowly faded, like a flower under too much sun.
"Good. That means in a fight, I wouldn't stand a chance against her, would I?"
Wilson's face tensed. He nearly choked on his coffee.
"Why are you asking that?"
"No reason," Anathel replied, the smile returning, but fainter, almost sad.
He stood up, pushing back his chair, which scraped the pavement with an unpleasant noise. He gathered the documents, slipped them inside his jacket, and picked up the briefcase. Before leaving, he gave a slight bow, bending his back with an outdated elegance.
"This job should be worth between 10 and 15 million trens, if I'm not mistaken. I'll have it done by Saturday evening. Anything else to add, Father?"
"No. Take care of yourself, Anathel."
The killer let out a small, silent laugh.
"God hears you."
Then he stepped into the street, blending into the mass of pedestrians, a black silhouette soon swallowed by the crowd.
Left alone, Wilson stared at the two empty cups and the little book with its red-and-black cover. He took some bills from his pocket, placed them on the table a total of 10 half-dollars and 3 ins and stood up with the slowness of a man for whom every movement costs. He looked one last time in the direction Anathel had taken, murmured, "What a shame. LOVE is truly too unfair," and walked away in turn, his shoulder heavy, as if burdened by a secret too old.