"I seriously doubt that. Plus, it seems that someone in the waking world wants you dead, Jack," I say conversationally.
His bottom lip begins to quiver. "I was just doing what I was told, I swear."
"Look, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you," I reply. "I don't know what you did, nor do I care. I'm just here to do my job." I shrug with total indifference.
He blanches as if his sudden realization of fleeting mortality has slapped him in the face. "It—it wasn't supposed to involve anyone else! Smith told me that I would get paid if I did my job like he said. I never intended to . . ." he stammers, but I raise my hand to cut him off.
"Did you seriously not hear a word I just said?" I narrow my eyes at him.
"Well y—yes, I did—but I just thought . . ." he gets out, fidgeting with his fingers.
"You just thought what? That I'd suddenly have a change of heart after hearing your pathetic sob story?" I roll my eyes. "Let me go ahead and break this down to make it very simple for you, Jack. I don't give a flying fuck what you did or didn't do. You aren't the one paying my commission, so please spare me all of the unnecessary bullshit okay?"
"But I—I don't want to die," he wails as tears begin to flow down his cheeks.
"Jesus. Get a grip and stop begging me for your life. Show a little pride and dignity and die like a man." I lift my arm and aim my blade directly at his pointed nose, one eye closed for accuracy.
He begins to panic in earnest, hysterically blubbering with snot dripping from his nose. "Please . . . don't . . . do this . . ." he barely manages through ragged sobs.
I scowl in irritation, pressing my left palm against my forehead. I don't know how much longer I can watch this grown-ass man whine. I can't remember the last time I cried about anything, and I have zero tolerance for extreme displays of emotion.
"Dios mio," I mutter. "Do you honestly think I care what you want? Do you have any idea who I am?"
Sheer terror fills his eyes. "You—you're the Reaper," he whispers.
"Good job!" I exclaim mockingly. "It looks like you know exactly who I am and why I'm here. So, we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. Regardless of which route you choose, you're going to die."
"M—maybe if you just let me explain the situation, we can work out a deal. Smith is a lying son of a bitch and . . ." Jack stammers.
I sigh and zone out his pathetic pleas. I think the man might literally be an idiot. He obviously knows my reputation in which case he should know that I never barter. I don't care how or why a client wants someone dead, I only care about making my money.
At this point, his heart rate is so uneven and erratic that I can hear it from clear across the room. I smirk as I picture my knife impaling his whiny ass in the sternum.
"Okay, I'm over this. Goodbye, Jack, and may Tenebra have mercy on your soul . . . huh, that's kind of an oxymoron, isn't it?" I muse, rolling my right arm around in its socket.
"Wait, please." His eyes widen, and he begins to hyperventilate. Before Jack can finish his sentence, I raise my throwing arm above my head and quickly snap it forward. In one fluid motion, the blade flies across the room and impales him in the center of the chest, puncturing his heart.
He gasps for air as his bulging eyes travel to his torso where dark astral blood is flowing in a steady stream onto the floor. His hands clutch around the handle of the knife, but before he can attempt to yank it out of his chest cavity, his eyelids flutter, and he drops to the floor.
He exhales his last breath, and I smile with satisfaction.
Whenever I kill someone in the AP, my target's physical body dies in the world of the living, and their spiritual body ceases to exist. If an autopsy is performed after their death, it will appear as nothing more than a brain aneurysm. This anomaly is how I can operate as an anonymous assassin without leaving any evidence behind. I can literally enter the AP, take out my target, obtain my kill confirmation and then go about my day without the worry of authorities tracing my target's death back to me. I leave nothing behind and no one to identify me.
I kneel on the floor next to Jack's lifeless body and wrench the knife out of his crimson-stained torso. With precise and practiced movements, I wipe the knife clean on my pants leg and thread my fingers through his hair, yanking his head upward. I drag the blade of my knife back and forth a few times, cutting off a chunk of his long peppered mane. I unceremoniously drop his head back to the floor with a thud as I reach into my right pocket for a small, etched glass vial. I quickly uncork the bottle and stuff the lock of hair inside, resealing it quickly. Once I return the vial to my pocket, I sheath my knife and stand up in one fluid motion.
I stride out of the bedroom and bound down the stairs, humming as I go. As I exit the house, I pause for a moment on the threshold to scan the area, watching and listening for any sign that I am no longer alone. I know who and what lies in wait in the deathly stillness of this place. Many years ago, I crossed paths with a tall, sinister man; he donned a dark grey suit, wore slicked back hair and had a mouthful of pearly white teeth. But that wasn't the concerning part. He had eyes of dark black tar that sank me like quicksand with no hope of escape. I don't scare easily, but those bottomless voids paralyzed me with a hopeless fear, unlike anything I've felt before.
Almost fifteen years ago, I had the displeasure of coming face to face with Orias, the boogeyman.
Once I'm confident that the coast is clear and devoid of the boogeyman, I stuff my hands into my pockets and hang a left onto Misty Court, retracing my steps. My physical body draws me in as inevitably as a fish on a reel. I reach the end of the road and take a right onto Baker Street, quickly stepping over the curb and up onto the sidewalk. I'm only about five minutes out from L'Auberge Hotel at this point, and with every step, the tension arching across my shoulders begins to ease: another successful mission free of any run-ins with Orias. I casually twirl the glass vial around in my pocket and run my thumbnail over the etching.
Soon, L'Auberge's tall, tan, rectangular frame looms above me, and I quickly stride across the street to the entrance. With its cracking stucco and chipped beige paint, it's far from the most beautiful hotel in Marseille, France but was definitely the closest to my target. So, Denali and I have had to make do with this shithole for about a week now.
I grab the chrome door handle and yank the heavy glass door open, strolling past the concierge desk towards the once-grand spiral stairwell. My combat boots click across the faded cream tiles as I scale the staircase two steps at a time. And then I'm on the landing, making my way down the narrow hallway to a peeling green door with a rusted "308" nailed to the top. I twist the brass handle and nudge the door with my hip, but it doesn't even budge. God, this fucking door jams just as stubbornly in the AP as it does in the world of the living. I can't wait to escape this God-forsaken place before these stupid doors, and the stench of stale cigarettes and cheap wine make me even more bat-shit crazy than I already am.
I loosely drop my hands back to my sides and exhale sharply, rolling my neck from side to side. Since we are finally leaving this hotel tomorrow morning, there really isn't any reason to keep the door functional in the AP anymore. In one fluid motion, I drive my foot into the door, and it slams open.
"Thank Christ," I mutter, brushing myself off and stepping into the hotel room.
I sigh with relief as I reach my physical body lying atop a threadbare crimson comforter. When I look down at my untouched body and long blonde braid splayed messily over the pillow, reprieve washes over me. Thanks to Dani and the inscriptions she paints on the doors of our hotel rooms, my body has remained undisturbed by any negative entities in the AP that might feel tempted to play with my shell while I am on a mission.
With one more successful kill in the books and soon another check in the bank, I'm desperately ready to return to the real world to celebrate with Dani. We commemorate each successful mission by finding a local bar or club, getting black-out drunk and—depending on the night—giving some random stranger the best sex of his or her life.
I climb onto the mattress and lower myself down onto my body, closing my eyes as the world around me goes black.