DAYWALKER | n.romanoff

ONE

CHAPTER ONE
' MEIN KLEINER DOLCH. '

The motel reeked.

And that was the only way the Blade could concoct to describe it. Even through the heavy metallic stench of blood, the smell of mould and festering fabric permeated the air and managed to weave through her helmet and balaclava. Sighing, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette.

The movement caused the bound man to whimper.

Ignoring him, she flicked open her lighter and ignited the end. Her movements were slow and careless, prolonging the tension.

"Por favor! No tengo- (Please! I don't have-)"

Her hiss was a demand of silence. "-Tus mentiras empeorarán todo. (Your lies will make everything worse.)"

He ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut. The Blade only watched him as she took a drag of her cigarette.

"¿Sabes por qué hago estas preguntas, hm? (Do you know why I ask these questions, hm?)"

"¡Por favor! ¡Por favor! Tengo una esposa- una familia- (Please! Please! I have a wife- a family-)"

"-No deberías haberme dicho eso. (You shouldn't have told me that.)" The Blade's words were simple but cold, and the way his gaze suddenly snapped up caused satisfaction to brew in her eyes. Again, she inhaled her smoke and slowly blew it out, keeping their gazes locked.

The man's face steadily bloomed into deep purples and black; a testament to their last few days together. While he had spent the first part in silence, eyes hard in defiance, his resolve had crumbled. Everyone did if they spent long enough with her.

Shadows tumbled around him, curling and constantly moving with each other. Their whispers were loud in the Blade's ears, faces only appearing to snap at her for her lack of movement.

She needed her questions answered, and she would get them, one way or another. Many of her victims used their families as an excuse to end their torture. If the Blade was anyone else, she might have pitied them.

But the Blade wasn't.

Loved ones were a means to an end, after all.

The Blade got to her feet and slowly approached the man. She dropped her cigarette, and it crumbled under her foot. "Me dirás lo que necesito saber o visitaré a la pequeña Gabriella. Y no queremos eso, ¿verdad? (You'll tell me what I need to know, or I'll visit little Gabriella. And we don't want that, do we?)"

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With a long sigh, the Blade collapsed into a chair, the thin cushions meaning she sunk into its dusty warmth. While crossing one leg over the other, her arms found the supports, and she stared at her work.

His body lay at an odd angle. His face was mangled with open wounds and pressed into the carpet, which had soaked up his blood. The hot Mexican air had called to the local insects, and they had begun to buzz around his body.

The room still stank, but it had shifted to the smell of death and fear.

Shadows crawled around the chair, some lounging by her feet while some sprawled over the back fabric behind her head. One in particular wrapped around her shoulders and their whispers had turned a soft dose.

It made her skin crawl, even if she was thankful for the quiet.

The tension arresting her body had made them volatile and snappy, which had transmitted to her. She was violent and ruthless, destroying anyone or anything that stood in her way. Only in the quiet, could she take a moment to realise how low she was sinking.