Charles wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath steady as he looked down at the 20th body of the week.
The alley was silent, except for the faint rustle of the wind and the distant hum of city life beyond the walls of this corner. He had grown more efficient over time, his hands steadier, his strikes more precise.
One swift motion—just enough force to sever the throat cleanly.
The blood sprayed, but it didn't faze him anymore. He barely flinched as the warm liquid hit his jacket.
The body slumped to the ground with a dull thud, the head rolling slightly to the side, a pool of dark red forming beneath it. Charles stood over it, staring down with a blank expression. There was no sense of triumph, no guilt either—just cold necessity.
He had learned to detach himself from it, reminding himself every time that this was for Charmaine. Always for her.
It had to be done.
