The Black Cat Chronicles

He reached the HDB block at Woodlands just after sunrise. The corridor was quiet, save for the scrape of tools and the muted tap of work already in progress. Inside the unit, one man was laying the last stretch of flooring, checking alignment by sight more than measurement. Another was fitting the kitchen cabinet doors, adjusting the hinges with practiced patience.

He stepped in without announcing himself. They nodded when they saw him. No greeting needed. He walked the unit once, slow and methodical. Flooring edges. Skirting. The join between tile and laminate. He crouched briefly, ran his fingers along a seam, then straightened. In the kitchen, he opened and closed a cabinet door. Once. Twice. The third time slower.

“This one,” he said quietly, pointing. “Align again.”

The worker nodded and loosened the hinge immediately. No raised voices or lectures. Just corrections.

They were on schedule. He checked the list on his phone final touches today, cleaning tomorrow. The homeowner would get the keys on time. Satisfied, he stepped out and locked the unit behind him.

By mid-morning, he was back at the flat. His mother sat in her usual chair, eyes drifting between the television and the window. He spoke to her softly, more habit than expectation. Checked her medication. Made sure she had eaten. He gave the maid clear instructions. Lunch. Medication timing. What to do if she became restless. Before leaving, he adjusted the cameras. One angle slightly higher. Another tilted towards the corridor, enough to monitor, not enough to interfere. Routine.

He left the flat and slipped into the morning flow of commuters. At the bus stop, nobody stood out. Office workers scrolling their phones. Labourers half-asleep. Students with earphones in. He waited without checking the time. The bus came when it came. Woodlands Interchange was already alive, footsteps echoing, announcements bleeding into one another.

He transferred without thinking, taking the feeder service toward the checkpoint. Same route. Same timings. Muscle memory. At Woodlands Checkpoint, he got off and joined the line on foot. No rush. Walking kept him invisible. People remembered cars. Nobody remembered faces. Inside, the air was cool and impersonal. He cleared Singapore immigration without incident, stepped out, and took another bus toward the Malaysian side.

Once through JB immigration, he boarded the bus to Larkin. The bus was older, louder, smelled faintly of fuel and sweat. He took a window seat, eyes half-lidded, watching the city unfold shop lots, traffic lights, banners promising discounts and loans. This was the part he liked. No steering wheel. No responsibility. Just movement.

By the time the bus rolled into Larkin, the day had fully woken up. Heat rose from the pavement. The market buzzed, alive and indifferent. He got off, adjusted the strap of the bag on his shoulder, and disappeared into the crowd like he always did. The market was already alive, voices overlapping, plastic bags rustling, oil crackling from nearby stalls. He moved through it without hurry.

Stall number nine was exactly where it always was. The makcik was packing keropok, hands moving steadily, muscle memory doing most of the work.

“Assalamualaikum, mak cik.”

She turned at the sound of his voice and smiled “Waalaikum salam.”

He stepped closer, reached for her hand, and kissed it lightly, a gesture done without thought or performance.

“Makcik sihat?” he asked.

“Sihat,” she replied, then laughed softly. “Ini lah… otot-otot ni sakit sikit-sikit saja.”

He smiled. “Biasa lah.” She gestured to the trays. “Hari ni mau yang mana?”

“Biasa,” he said. Fish. Prawn. Squid. All in bulk.

She packed while they talked about nothing important, the weather, the rising prices, how fast time passed these days. He listened more than he spoke, nodding at the right moments. When she tied the last bag, he hesitated just enough to make it sound casual, and hand her the money. She took it without counting them.

“Makcik,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “ada apa-apa untuk saya hari ni selain dari keropok ni?”

Her hands stopped for a second. She looked at him, then reached under the counter, pulling out a thin brown envelope. No writing. No markings. She slid it between the packets of keropok as if it were just another receipt.

“Ini,” she said. He didn’t look at it. Just nodded.

“Terima kasih, mak cik.”

“Datang lagi minggu depan,” she said.

“InsyaAllah.” He lifted the bags, gave her a small nod, and walked away, melting back into the market crowd.

He stopped by a coffee shop nearby, ordered a kopi O and a plate of Chicken Briyani, and sat alone at a corner table. The envelope stayed buried in the keropok bags. He didn’t touch it yet. There was no hurry. He already knew what it would be.

Two days earlier, he had seen the post on the Malaysia–Singapore forum. Job Vacancies. Nothing flashy. No promises. Just a short paragraph. Independent. Project basis. Singaporean or Malaysian. Most people would have scrolled past it. He didn’t.

This forum was his online hanging-out place. He checked in regularly, participated in discussions, exchanged casual remarks about work, travel, the usual noise. Nothing that stood out. Nothing that needed remembering. This wasn’t the first time. He had taken on freelance jobs like this before spaced out over the years, never too close together, never enough to form a pattern.

Each one came the same way, and each one ended the same way. Quietly. Their communication never left public spaces. Open chat rooms. Forum threads buried under ordinary conversations. No emails. No messages sent directly from one person to another. Nothing that asked for privacy, nothing that invited attention. To anyone watching, it was just noise. To him, it was familiar. Every job followed the same rhythm.

An offer that looked like nothing. A response that meant everything. Confirmation through images instead of words. Silence doing most of the work. So far, every job he had accepted had been completed successfully. No loose ends. No follow-up questions. No complaints.

Payment was always cash and in Singapore Dollars. Physical. Untraceable. Delivered without ceremony. He never counted it twice. Never celebrated it. Money, once verified, was simply stored. Safely. The cash stayed in his JB apartment, stacked and organised, out of sight. Not in banks. Not in accounts that asked questions or noticed patterns. Banks remembered too much. Paper trails had a way of resurfacing when least expected. Here, nothing moved unless he moved it. And he moved things carefully. That was why they kept coming back to him. Not because he was reckless. Not because he was desperate. Because he was consistent.

He folded the papers neatly and set them aside. This job was bigger than the last one. More demanding. Less forgiving. He felt the familiar pull not toward the money, but toward the problem itself. A faint smile crossed his face. Some people collected hobbies. He collected challenges. And this one had arrived right on time.

By late afternoon, he was back in his private JB apartment. A small place. Clean. Functional. Curtains drawn against the heat. The kind of unit people passed every day without noticing who lived there. No neighbours worth remembering. He owned it.

Bought two years ago from the original owner, a man who needed cash quickly. The deal was done without drama. Paid in full. Cash. No questions about where the money came from. He was Singaporean. In their eyes, that explained everything. The truth was simpler. The money came from freelance work spread out over time, accumulated patiently, never rushed. No loans. No banks. No paper trail asking to be remembered. Just another completed transaction. Ownership mattered. Rent invited curiosity. Ownership, done quietly, disappeared into routine.

This place existed for one purpose: privacy. A space where he could come and go without pattern, without curiosity. No landlord. No inspections. No reason for anyone to ask how long he stayed or why he appeared only on certain days. He locked the door behind him and set the bags down neatly on the counter. The keropok went into the cabinet, stacked and labelled, ready to be moved across the border in small amounts, like always.

Only then did he take out the envelope and place it on the table. He sat at the dining table, chair scraping softly. He didn’t open it immediately. He washed his hands, dried them, poured a glass of water. Routine mattered. When he finally opened the envelope, there were one sheet of paper. Typed. Plain font. No letterhead. No names. He read them once. Then again.

Expectation: No casualties if possible. Minimise.

Outcome: Total or partial destruction.

Price: SGD 100K

The image sat at the bottom of the page. He didn’t linger on them. His mind was already working, feasibility, access, exposure, exit. What could be controlled. What had to be managed. Challenging but not impossible.

He leaned back, a faint smile touching his lips.

“About time.”

He checked the time. Twenty-four hours. That was the window. No reminders. No follow-ups. No pressure. If he chose to walk away, he did nothing. Silence was an answer they understood. He set the papers aside and stood by the window for a moment, looking down at the street below. People moved without purpose that mattered to him. Lives intersecting, separating, unnoticed. He didn’t rush decisions. Ever.

That night passed quietly. The next morning, he woke early, stretched, and went through his routine. Shower. Coffee. News he didn’t really read. He replayed the job in his head, not emotionally, but structurally. Points of failure. Unknowns. What could be mitigated. What had to be accepted.

By noon, the answer had already settled. He sat at the table and opened his laptop. The same forum. The same job-vacancy thread, now buried under newer posts. People asking questions. Others complaining about pay. Noise. He logged in.

Username: TROJAN

He didn’t type a word. Instead, he uploaded a single image. Two people shaking hands. Nothing else. He posted it and closed the browser immediately. No refreshing. No waiting. He already knew what would happen next.

Within thirty minutes, he saw the reply. Not in words. Never in words. A picture. A luggage bag advertisement. When that appeared, it meant the first half was ready. Cash. Physical. Waiting where it was agreed to wait in 24 hours. No names. No receipts. He shut the laptop and stood up. Decision made. Now came the work.

Outside, the city carried on as usual. No alarms. No signs. No sense that anything had shifted. But for him, the day had already changed. He picked up the papers again, this time not to read but to begin.

The next day, exactly twenty-four hours after the image appeared, he went back to Larkin. No rush. No deviation. The left baggage counter sat where it always did, tucked slightly away from the main flow. People came and went, dragging suitcases, asking questions, losing tickets. He waited his turn like everyone else. When it was time, he keyed in the locker number. The door swung open. Inside was a medium-sized luggage bag. Dark. Ordinary. Locked. He took it out without looking around. The weight told him enough.

Outside, he flagged down a taxi and gave the address without explanation. The driver didn’t ask questions. JB was full of people who preferred it that way.

Back in the apartment, the door clicked shut behind him. He set the luggage on the table and keyed in the lock. The code was familiar, not something he had to think about. Inside, stacks of cash. Neatly bundled. He didn’t count it the way nervous men did.

Just a visual check. The amount was right. Fifty percent. Satisfied, he carried the bag into the back room. The room was empty, bare walls, no windows. No keyhole on the door. Just a keypad. He entered the code and stepped inside.

Against one wall sat a metal safe deposit box. Solid. Unremarkable. He opened it and transferred the cash without ceremony, stacking it with the rest. Everything in its place. He closed the safe and stood there for a moment, listening to the silence. Then he took out only what he needed. Enough to use. Enough to bring back across the border without questions. Not too much. Never too much.

By evening, the luggage was filled with keropok. Just another bag, ready to pass it to his friend who runs a Malay rice stall at the hawker center.

The following morning, he crossed back into Singapore the same way he always did. Public transport. No hurry. No attention. To anyone watching, he was just another Singaporean returning from a weekend in JB.

A contractor with work waiting. A son with responsibilities. A week ahead to prepare for. Nothing about him stood out. That was the point. The rest would come later, the planning, the execution, the quiet precision of it all. For now, everything was in place. And the job had officially begun.