I wiped the blood off my hands and tossed the napkin in a trash bin.
I stared at the dead body on the floor — still, lifeless, nothing left. Reaching into my coat, I pulled out an old, worn-out notebook. The cover was fraying, the pages nearly falling apart.
I wrote down his name.
An old habit.
I always took the names of the ones I killed.
A list for no one but me.
I walked out of the apartment and pulled my hood over my head.
Another job done…
A couple thousand dollars made.
Not that I needed the money.
There was nearly a billion sitting untouched in some Swiss account.
The agency had settled us after the disbandment—like that could pay off what they did to us.
But I never spent a dime.
That money felt cursed. Like blood money still screaming.
I headed towards the old cafe on 7th Street. Same ath, same turn, same broken sign swinging in the wind.
"Good morning," the waitress chirped.
"The usual?" she asked
I nodded.
She disappeared into the counter, and I waited, hands in my pockets. My hood hung low over my eyes.
A couple of minutes later she returned with a paper bag and a cup of black coffee.
I walked outside and saw the flashing lights before I heard them.
An ambulance.
Two squad cars.
All pulled up at the apartment I just walked out of.
I made the anonymous call.
I turned around and walked away.
Walked back to the same shitty apartment I'd been squatting in for the past couple of months — top floor, broken heater, a view of nothing but bricks and regrets.
My room was what you'd expect: a cracked futon, a half-folded blanket, and a corner littered with empty beer cans and yellowing newspapers. That was my routine. That was home — or the closest I ever came to it.
I wasn't educated in any way. Didn't grow up reading bedtime stories or learning to spell "philosophy." So I read the papers. Out loud sometimes. Just to teach myself how to sound like the people I was sent to kill.
Most evenings, I walked to a local bar — not for the drinks, not even for the noise. But because of her.
At exactly 9:00 p.m., she'd pass by on the sidewalk across the street, barefoot like always. She moved like a breeze through a city that was simultaneously choking
I'd sit at the bar, a bottle untouched before me, and watch her dance. Humming. Spinning with a bunch of flowers in her hand like she wasn't just surviving — like she was still dreaming.
Today, I almost went into her shop. I imagined pretending to be a customer — maybe asking for sunflowers or something stupid like that. But I didn't. I couldn't.
She wasn't a mission. I didn't want her to ever feel like one.
I didn't even know her name.
And I wanted it that way—until the day it slipped from her lips, soft and natural, like the rest of her.
She was small. The smallest person I'd ever seen. I could probably fold her in half and put her in my pocket. But she wasn't weak.
Her body was lean, not from hunger, but from movement. Like a dancer who didn't care about applause.
Brunette hair hacked short — jagged, someone had done it with a blade and no mirror. She wore clothes like she couldn't be bothered. Mismatched, colorful, soft.
I had her schedule memorized.
At 7:00 a.m., she stopped by the coffee shop next to the flower stall.
Around 10, she checked in on her dad and picked up meds when needed.
By noon, she'd made enough cash to scrape through.
She never stayed long in conversations, but
She smiled. A lot.
Too much for a world like this.
Too soft.