The Bathroom, High Rise Apartment Complex, Baltiney, New York...
Hot steam filled the grand bathroom of black marble and white tile as a lone man appearing to be well into his early thirties leaned his head against it in the wake of the heated water cascading from his messy dark brown hair down to his pale toes in the wake of the much-needed morning shower that had taken place. He'd been an impressive sort of man, athletic with well-toned muscles throughout his body appearing every bit the male model or Greek work of art that many had seen only in their wildest fantasies. He had taken great steps to keep himself neat and fit despite the lack of personal attention to other aspects of his life such as a social one. His washboard abs and notoriously long and thick cock had been something that kept the women hopping in and out of his bed, right along with his impressive accumulation of wealth and vast travel portfolio.
He wore nothing but finely tailored suits, usually in navy blue, tan, or grey when not working, and when he'd been working classic black had been his color of choice. He looked at it as if it had been a uniform of sorts despite him never having stepped foot in an office building to hold down a nine-to-five. His line of work had taken much more skill and nuance than simply punching in a time clock on someone else's dime.
Crimson had been a color he'd known all too well and when coupled with the lingering effects of black it made for an eye-catching scene altogether. Much like the unassuming housecat, he had been prone to snuffing out little mice now and again. According to the name that had come from the very few subscriptions of magazines that lined the handsome man's coffee table, he'd been known as Lars.
Lars Eamon Kellerman to be exact and he'd been a high-level hitman for the fabled and shadowy Inglorious Faction for a good many years. His career of sorts had not been one of his choosing per se, it had been chosen for him given he'd been an unwanted orphan and left largely to his own devices until running afoul of an I.F. Agent by the name of Arthur Bradoaks.
Arthur had tangled with a good deal of men in his line of work but nothing had floor him quite the way a mean haymaker from a scared nine-year-old did once he gave a chase after him. Seeing the boy had no family and was a scrapper in his own right, Arthur opted to take the tyke in and raised him as a father would a son until he'd been killed on an assignment by a traitor agent, Nester Coals.
Determined to avenge Arthur Bradoakes and kill Nester Coals himself, Lars became an agent in his own right mastering their training and weaponry alike anything and everything to get his hands on the bastard that killed the only father he'd ever known.
The shifting of the dials had indicated that Lars had finished with his shower as the hot water turned off and only the steam remained, he stepped out of the tub, dripping from head to toe, his impressive cock dangling in the wake of his movements as he made his way back toward the space where he kept his towels, he dried himself and wrapped a large bright white towel around his waist and stepped into the enormous walking closet that lead toward his bedroom.
Lars stepped in front of the large closet doors and pulled them back revealing his vast selection of suits as he elected to fish out a pristine black suit to go along with the shiny black dress shoes he'd passed on the way to the closet. He had always been fond of wearing black, it seemed much more appropriate when it came to his work days, and for funerals, black had been vastly appropriate when it came to funerals and as luck would have it, Lars had been getting dressed specifically for someone's funeral, no one he knew personally of course, just some name of an unfortunate soul scribbled into his date book as his next soon to be dead and very lucrative target.
Lars finished drying and put on his attire piece by piece, beginning with his black boxer shorts, as briefs were never his thing and underwear had been for children, his cock had been far too big to stuff behind constrictions as it was and he hated the fabric of most pairs. Then came his trousers, heavily pressed black suit trousers to be exact, Lars had a thing for ironing and often liked to be presented as tidy even when doing some of his most messy kills.
It was quite a satisfying thing to see the terror in the eyes of his victims when a sharp-dressed stranger refused to offer assistance and instead presented them with the option of impending death. There had been quite a few high moments for Lars as he watched the light drain from the eyes of his victims shortly before disappearing into the night, he'd been a regular head case when it came to his colleagues for years and they naturally avoided him.
Erotomania...
That was what the so-called shrink who had been examining him had told him he suffered from. Lars had begged to differ, he had not nor had he ever been in love with anyone let alone an unrealistic person that didn't even reciprocate his emotional ties.
He had been in love with his work, married to his job so to speak but every now and again he'd bed numerous women mostly to keep people out of his business and off his back, he had no real use for them, as he'd been more comfortable lathering the sticky ooze of crimson from a switchblade or cleaning one of his pristine guns from his collection.
No matter the tools at his disposal, Lars had made killing into an unappreciated art form. As he finished dressing and made his way toward the front door after grabbing his car keys, he'd been well on his way to putting on a show of sorts with the next name of the unfortunate new target scribbled into his date book.