The bottom of the tub was stained red. Thick, red streams like tentacles trailed over the man's body and clouded the water that ran down the drain. Stained suds slid down his back and were obliterated by the falling water. He scrubbed his hair and body with a harshness bordering on hatred. The blood's sticky texture still clung to his skin, and he scrubbed harder to rid himself of the feeling, his skin raw and angry.

The man snapped off the water and tore aside the shower curtain. Without reaching for a towel, he stepped out of the tub and dropped to his knees before the toilet, retching in self-disgust. This has become his pattern: bludgeon, murder, clean up, throw up. He hated the road his life had taken. He was a hired gun for the SM Syndicate, a murderer. How far he had fallen from a man of promise, a man with a college degree in - of all things - criminology.

He rose from the floor and flushed, per routine. The water he in the sink was cold, and he liberally splashed his face, the icy trickles running down his neck unheeded. He looked into the foggy mirror and saw the eyes of a man haunted, a man who wanted out. He swallowed hard and splashed his face again. His fists closed over his eyes as he fought the hot sting of frustrated tears.

The phone he left on the toilet tank buzzed once. The man looked at it and reached for the towel hanging on the wall before picking it up. It was from his handler, a man who hated the life he lived more than the people he was forced to deal out death orders to.

"SW still out of commission. HC in Beijing. KG returning from Thailand Friday."

The man shook his head, smiling just enough to produce a dimple in his right cheek, and tapped a reply. "You aren't texting me just for updates. What do you want this late?"

The response came instantly, blackening the mood of the dimpled man once more. "New assignment. Report to HQ tomorrow morning for orders."

Well .