This Twisted Game - A Hamilton Retelling

Tender is the Night

His blood.

It dripped off the polished mahogany desk, staining the documents spread all around him, transferring the red like a fast – spreading disease.

She stepped back, tightness spreading through her head, shivers running down her spine. Her fingers trembled, itched to pull the blade out of his back, return him to his previous state, where he was alive and well and running the empire's business from this room, paper and pen at his disposal, ready to carve a new path in this new land.

When in fact the land had always been there before they arrived on these shores, the people who were so far north that the sun had not touched them, hadn't baked their skin with the glow of the people of this land. And yes, there were people before they showed up. There had always been so.

Sickness roiled up her throat, tears threatened to sting her eyes. She could have killed him ina different way, saratona clamped over his nose, quick and easy so it would have seemed that he ahd simply fallen asleep. Instead, her supervisor had insisted on blood. To send a message.

She rolled back her shoulders and melded into the shadows of the room. There was more work to be done.

Come morning, and there would be chaos. It would push the British closer towards the French, sure, but it would be enough to strike fear into their hearts. To let them know that they were dealing with a serious threat.

And then the real cleaver would be brought down.