Rules of the Hitman

#1-Know Your Target

Sometimes knowing your target meant getting intimate with them. One-and-done kills were satisfying, but like sex was a temporary high that eventually dulled and dimmed the dopamine in one's brain. The hunger would still gnaw and ebb at one's stomach until they needed it again-the high, satiating the crave for bloodlust, of knowing a job well done.

For Striker, the pleasure in it began to wane with time. It gradually ebbed away into nothing more than a regular job. He provided the service, he got paid. No emotion attached to it, no guilt. It was just a job. When he took the more undercover positions, slipping into characters and roles he normally wouldn't, really slithering within their grass to learn as much as he could to best execute.

"Striker, can you give me a hand, please?"

He turned his head towards the farmhouse. His latest job involved another-someone who best knew his target. The person who wanted them perished. Her weakness was his strength, and she beheld intel he needed to perform.

"Yeah!" He paused. "I'll be there in a sec."

They took to an abandoned home beside a plot of land. Had he retired, he would have done something with it. Planted roots, made things grow, and lived off the land the way his mama intended. But his pa had them always on the lam because he was sloppy. Something Striker could proudly say he wasn't.

Most days, he remained in the adjacent stables, where he hid the majority of his guns and other weaponry. It became a workshop of sorts. Being out in seemingly the middle of nowhere, he had all the time to himself to plot and scheme.

#2-Focus

Occupying the center stall, Striker entertained the idea while glancing up at Bombproof across the way. The potent metallic smell of blood and meat filled the assassin's nostrils while securing his gear beneath the loose hay. Swinging the door open, he reached to stroke the nose of his faithful companion-really, the only one he could trust in his endeavors.

Bombproof never once betrayed him, took him for granted, or tried to flip the tables and knife him. No, his steed was loyal through and through. And that seemed to be the only thing that Striker could rely on. Because not a one was trustworthy.

Overlords were pompous, arrogant, and entitled creatures who abused their power for their own gain. Used other people like pawns on their personal chessboards of control, moving them at their own will. Striker felt he escaped that life just in time, and promised it would never again happen.

Which was why, when the sinner placed a hit on one, well, it excited him a little more than usual.

#3-Straight Aim

Exiting the stables, he took steps towards the farmhouse. The old, decrepit-looking building was worse for the wear outside. Its innards remained fairly intact. It was once blue, though faded and grayed with time-the slate-colored shingled roof was missing a few slats. The itch to repair it was tempting to scratch, but he had to remind himself that he wouldn't be here long enough for the repair to be worth it to him.

He observed where the grass used to be, and the dirt path of what was once the driveway separated from one another and met, to the chipped concrete steps that led to the door. Motheaten paisley curtains greeted him as he opened it up and at once was hit with the aroma of something he hadn't smelled in a long time-a home-cooked meal.

It was hard to discern the scents, but none of them smelled burned. No smoke clouding the room towards the ceiling. Nothing was on fire, so why was he called? "Lil' Lady?" He called out.

"In the dining room!" Lil' Lady responded.

Furrowing his brows together, Striker took cautious steps deeper into the kitchen. Crackling from the fire within the old wood fire stove turned his head, immediately looking for something out of place within the dated kitchen. He'd taken close inventory in the event his client so dared to turn on him.

So far, all she seemed was a woman desperate to get away from a bad situation...and to ensure it never happened again.

Harper Grobin didn't appear to be the type of woman who was capable of killing. Then again, she was a sinner, she must have done something that landed her here in hell. And for that fact alone meant she was capable of just about anything.

#4-Don't Fall in Love

He had no choice but to think the unthinkable with people, needing to constantly be a step ahead of them. That was what made a good killer. Always thinking, mind constantly churning potentials and possibilities that could be thrown at him. An exhausting endeavor that he masked well. But he could not remain stoic upon the sight of the curlicues of steam that surfaced from the dishes set upon the clothed table.

Lil' Lady went to try to make this shithole a home.

"What's all this?"

The snowcapped demoness blinked her thick lashed cherry-red eyes. "Dinner? You were out there for a while, so I figured...food?" She tiptoed her words.

Striker inhaled. "Smells good. What'd you need me for?"

Could be poisoned.

"You could...come in and sit?" She rose from her seat to take the knife and slice it into what looked like a roast. Momentarily he tensed. Red ran into the casserole dish, potholders settled beneath the pots used for the sides. Knitting her own brows together, she proceeded to cut into it and slip the fork into her mouth.

"I figured while we're...working together, we may as well make the most of it."

She was making a point without having to say a word. She knew...Harper knew he didn't trust her.

"Darlin', I work alone-"

Tilting her head to the side, she added the sides onto the fork, green beans topping mashed potatoes before taking another mouthful. She chewed, carefully. It was only then Striker stepped further into the dining room, warmed by the meal, by the candles that lit this drafty, pathetic space.

"I know you do," she replied. "And as of right now, you don't."

Quirking a brow, Striker crossed the space between the doorway and the table, taking a seat at the head. When was the last time he indulged in something that wasn't takeout?

"This is what you've been doing all day?" He turned his head to her as he reached for the knife and fork, proceeding to cut himself a few slices.

Harper took a sip of her wine, relishing in the taste of something other than the cheap brands before setting her glass down. "Figured it was something to do while you were outside. Went into town, met the-"

"You did what?" He hissed, tail rattling tensely behind him. "Tell me you're not that stupid, Darlin'."

Her eyes narrowed, cherry reds taking on a more crimson hue as she slowly set her silverware down. "To them, I am a dutiful wife providing for my husband while he tends to our land. We are developing a vineyard beside our farm...that's our cover."

Striker hissed, tail shaking as he inhaled deeply, exhaling through his slitted nostrils. He'd done worse, acting as a farmhand to a pair of imps with a chilly pepper of a daughter and her lame husband. All for the sake of attempting to kill a Goetia.

How bad could it be playing husband to a lust demoness who went from dancing on the pole to taking to the kitchen? Admittedly, he believed her head to be filled with the tricks of her trade. But she thought beyond that, away from that.

Perhaps he had underestimated her.

Just as that pompous overlord likely did.

"A vineyard, huh?" A laugh caught in his throat. "Never woulda figured that one, Harper."

A smirk hitched in the corner of her lips. "Have to have some class." She needed to play her cards just right if this was going to go off without a hitch. "And I think an herbal garden, too. Feeling some nightshade...the same color I'd like the siding of the house to be."