BIA Ch. 7

Isaiah wearing his jacket, looked at the mirror on the inside of the cabinet door. A black t-shirt with a stretched-out neckline, slightly clinging slim-fit black jeans, and over it, a black leather jacket… Even while putting it on, he had thought, This is a bit much, isn’t it?, and indeed, it was. How should he put it? It had a strangely decadent feel. He looked like a hustler from a 90s movie.

This won’t do.

Isaiah quickly threw off the leather jacket, put on a blouson jacket that looked reasonably normal, and went out.

“Wear something else.”

And he was immediately stopped by Chester.

“Why?”

“That’s not possible. And change your t-shirt underneath. Something less shabby.”

The mafia sure is picky about everything.

Isaiah cursed inwardly and went back to his room.

As soon as he roughly closed the door, he threw off the blouson jacket, opened the cabinet, and started looking for a t-shirt. Isaiah Cole, or rather, he wasn’t the type to organize things properly, and had piled his washed clothes haphazardly in the cabinet without even folding them.

“Damn it, I should’ve kept things tidy.”

Well, how could someone who kills people with a gun for the mafia possibly organize their clothes properly? His complaint soon turned into self-deprecation. At the same time, his hand, which had been rummaging through the cabinet, stopped.

He would not look for it. Whatever it was. He truly would not look for it. He wanted to bury it all, just like this.

It was strange. In this kind of situation, it would make sense to try and find out even one more piece of information about himself, but somehow, he would not know any more. Even if he looked, nothing more came to mind, and the more he knew, the more distant everything felt.

For example, his taste in clothes. The only thing he had learned while searching this closet was that he owned a lot of black clothing. He could have just thought, I must like black, but in this situation, such a simple thought was impossible. It must be because blood splatters don’t show up easily, or Black clothes don’t look out of place when carrying a gun. Grim thoughts continued to chain themselves together.

He hated it. It was so horrifying he could not believe it, and, honestly, it felt like he was having a nightmare. Of all things, the mafia. He would not have needed to be a nineteen-year-old state college student, though he still would not know about that. If it truly was multiple personalities, why, out of so many diverse personas, would this one emerge? At least it would not have needed to be a criminal. He wasn’t even a common thug. A hitman belonging to the mafia. In the end, wasn’t that just a contract killer?

The witnesses were too compelling to deny it. In this situation, there was no reason for Chester and Manny to lie. Especially Chester, who was too slow-witted to fabricate such an incredible story on the spot. His reflexes were poor, and his memory would not seem good. And there was a picture of him with the mafia, clear as day, on Manny’s phone.

To summarize, there was a high probability that their story was true. That was what was so despairing. It was so despairing, it was devastating.

Should he just go to the police station right now and confess? Then, he might be granted a reduced sentence for reason of insanity…No, that would not happen. He must have been in his right mind when he committed the act. Rather, he could say that now he was in a state of diminished capacity.

He sighed and rummaged through the haphazardly piled clothes when suddenly, his fingertips touched something hard. Isaiah quickly moved the pile of clothes and pulled it out.

Hidden deep inside the cabinet, beneath a mountain of clothes, was a thick paper bag. Inside the bag were two A4-sized sheets of paper. One was a certificate proving that John and Barbara Cleveland had adopted Isaiah Cleveland through Holt International Children’s Services in Korea.

This might be… mine, right? Then was I originally Isaiah Cleveland?

Isaiah read the full name on the document aloud. He had heard the name Isaiah Cole a few times now, so the surname Cleveland shouldn’t have felt that unfamiliar. Of course, Isaiah Cole felt unfamiliar as well. No matter what anyone said, the name he was most accustomed to was Isaiah Diaz. He liked that name best.

The remaining page was an application for admission to a childcare facility. It was an application to enter an orphanage affiliated with the Monastery of St. John Bosco in Eloy City, but the name on it wasn’t Isaiah Cleveland. The name was Jaehee Lee. Eleven years old, American nationality.

“But this photo is me…”

Isaiah stared at the boy’s picture attached to the document for a long moment, then belatedly muttered, “Ah.”

That was it. Perhaps he hadn’t used that name because he had been adopted? Well, if he had gone to an orphanage, there was a high probability that he had been adopted. Then could this be… his real name?

“Jaehee, Lee…”

Jaehee, Lee Jaehee. Isaiah repeated the name several times. It felt just as unfamiliar. Moreover, because it was a foreign name, he wasn’t even sure he was pronouncing it correctly. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed somewhat similar in pronunciation to Isaiah ([aizéiǝ]).

“Isaiah!”

Chester, unable to contain himself any longer, yelled again.

“Alright! I’m almost done!”

As Isaiah was about to put the documents back, he realized the envelope felt heavy and quickly turned it over. With a thud, something fell to the floor. It was an FBI identification card. He knew it was an FBI ID because it had “FBI” written on it in large letters.

That was all he could discern. Where the signature and photograph should have been, there were only traces of them having been meticulously torn away, leaving no clue as to whom the ID belonged.

But this wasn’t something he needed to dwell on. It was with his documents, so naturally, it was his. Wasn’t that obvious?

In an instant, his mind felt clearer.

So that was it. He was an FBI agent. He had infiltrated the mafia organization, posing as a hitman, concealing his true identity for an operation. He would have needed to keep his ID, hidden where others wouldn’t find it, but torn off the identifying photo and signature as a precaution… it all fit perfectly, didn’t it?

Faced with a situation where everything aligned flawlessly, without a single discrepancy, Isaiah felt a thrill. This even explained his earlier question of “Why the mafia?”

Yes, of course he couldn’t be a criminal. And a hitman? Preposterous. If he had actually shot someone, it must have been part of the operation. He would have been forced to sacrifice a pitiful life for the sake of maintaining a perfect disguise.

Isaiah was exhilarated by his own deduction. Honestly, it was a little uncanny how perfectly everything fell into place. So uncanny it gave him goosebumps but thinking about it, it was only natural. This was the truth. There was no room for argument.

Having finally overcome his intense cognitive dissonance through strenuous self-rationalization, Isaiah tucked the FBI ID back into his clothes. For now, it was the only proof of his true identity. He absolutely couldn’t let Chester see it.

The thought that he wasn’t just a mafia member, but an undercover FBI agent, filled him with a sudden surge of endorphins and motivation.

Of course, this didn’t mean he planned to do anything. He didn’t even know who he was, so what could he possibly do? In movies, amnesiacs who tried to do things always ended up causing trouble and getting caught up in incidents. Jason Bourne was probably like that too.

Isaiah had no intention of making such foolish mistakes. For the sake of his own self (?), who had successfully maintained his cover until now, he couldn’t act rashly. According to Manny, his memories would likely return within a few days. Until then, Isaiah’s goal was to stay by Chester’s side and survive.

Steeling his resolve, Isaiah quickly changed his clothes before Chester yelled again. It was just another worn-out black t-shirt, but at least the neckline wasn’t stretched out.

He looked for something to wear over it, but nothing seemed suitable. Using the less disheveled t-shirt as justification, he put on the leather jacket he had taken off earlier. Looking in the mirror, he saw that with less skin exposed, the decadent vibe was considerably lessened. Of course, it was like going from a 90s hustler to a 2000s fairy^[1].

“Are you trying to pick up men?”

Sure enough, Chester immediately frowned.

But Isaiah didn’t care.

“It’s a bother. Let’s just go.”

What did it matter if people saw him as a hustler or a desperate homosexual? He was an undercover FBI agent. Having conquered his cognitive dissonance with self-rationalization, Isaiah had achieved a state of resounding mental victory.

Chester clicked his tongue as he watched Isaiah, clad in his leather jacket, head out the door first.

“Figures. I thought he was acting a little cute with his head all messed up. He’s starting to show his true colors.”