The room was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint drip of blood pooling on the floor. My hands were steady—always steady—though the weight of what I'd just done pressed against my chest like a second heartbeat.
They say power is taking control. I say it's owning every choice, even the ones that stain your soul.
He thought he was hunting a ghost. He didn't know me yet. But he doesn't know ghosts don't bleed like I do.
I wiped the blade clean, my movements deliberate, precise. No trace left behind—only the silence that followed, heavy and suffocating.
The city outside pulsed with oblivious life, but here, in this room, time seemed to stall. My breath evened out, steady as a metronome. This was my world. My rules.
And yet… a knot twisted deep inside. Not fear. Not regret. Something else. A flicker of doubt I didn't have time to entertain.
Because I couldn't afford weakness—not now.
The body had fallen before he realized he was going to die.
He hadn't begged. That would've been easier.
Instead, he looked surprised—like the blade had broken the rules somehow. Like death had come early, rude and uninvited.
I hadn't known his name.
That wasn't the part that mattered.
He'd come too close, whispered the wrong threat, believed I wouldn't act. A stupid mistake.
But not uncommon.
The blood had spilled fast. A crimson arc against the white tile, vivid and final. I'd watched it for a moment—how quiet it all became. How peaceful.
It didn't feel like justice. Or cruelty. It felt… necessary.
But something about this one stuck to me differently. Not regret. Not guilt.
Just a sharp, metallic awareness.
Someone would come looking.
And when they did, I needed to be three steps ahead. Always.
Because in my world, hesitation is an open wound.
And I don't bleed for anyone.
The body had already been cleared, the room scrubbed to its edges—sterile, clean, untouched. But in my mind, it wasn't.
I could still see him.
The way he'd fallen—awkward, almost clumsy for a man who had walked in with so much confidence. The blade had done its job. Swift. Efficient.
But his eyes… they lingered.
Wide open. Glassy. Fixed on me in that last moment—not in fear, not even hate.
Surprise.
Like he expected something else. Like death hadn't been part of the equation he'd written for me.
That look—it clung to me. I couldn't name the feeling it left behind.
Regret? No. I'd done what I had to do. Regret was a luxury for people with less blood on their hands.
Pity? Disgust?
No. It was something quieter. Slower. More dangerous.
I told myself it didn't matter. That the dead don't look back. But that wasn't entirely true.
Because he still was.
In my memory. In the way he fell. In that question I couldn't shake.
What had he expected from me?
And why did it matter?