Nothing Personal

04. thomas howard

WILLOW KILLED THOMAS Howard.

Well, not yet.

But Willow would.

Willow breathed in the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee as she settled into her corner booth and nibbled absentmindedly on a biscuit. She sighed as a familiar numbness crept through her body like a chill, deadening her senses and muting her emotions.

She now viewed the scene from outside herself. Voices echoed oddly in her ears, muffled and indistinct. The smells of roasting coffee beans and baking pastries wafted through the air but failed to register in Willow's disconnected mind.

Wait.
Was she dreaming again?
Was any of this truly happening?

Or was she lost in some dissociative dream state, imagined realities blurring with memory?

No. Willow checked this morning. She had her ice bath earlier. That was enough proof that this was happening. It was all real.

Willow clutched at her arms, digging her fingernails in hard to anchor herself, feeling only a dull pressure but no pain. She blinked hard, but nothing happened.

She shook her head sharply, trying to rid herself of the tangled distortion of unreality. Her target was a boy across the room—there was no deeper meaning or illusion here. But still, her perception swam, the cafe taking on a nightmarish otherworldliness. Willow focused on regulating her breathing, forcing herself into a detached, robotic state. Only through this could she complete her task.

She felt like a serpent with her nerves primed. Waiting always heightened her senses—the chatter and clinking of cups induced a strange, static-like energy across her skin.

As Willow nibbled her biscuit, her attention zeroed in on her target across the bustling cafe. Thomas Howard sat oblivious, chatting on his phone with a carefree laugh. He poured the liquor he believed was from his friend into his coffee like Willow knew he would. She made a mental note.

He was already on the verge of breaking. He was a mess. He drank more alcohol than water in his day-to-day life. Lovely.

With a small smile, Willow placed a sugar cube into her coffee, watching the grains dissolve without a trace. She lifted the mug automatically, inhaled the aroma, and then took an idle sip, letting the bitter heat spread through her muscles and melt away doubts. Willow was a weapon—one that didn't hesitate. And Carlos had given her orders that she could not deny. Her gaze flitted back to Thomas, curiosity piqued by his frantic state.

As the poison took hold of Thomas, Willow felt herself detach from her surroundings. The chatter and clinking of dishes faded into a dull roar as her vision tunneled.

Something caught in his throat. He lurched grimly, coughing violently into his fist as the poison took hold. Concerned murmurs arose around him, but Willow observed with a detached interest, noting every minuscule reaction clinically as if from outside her own body.

It was the only way to endure witnessing the light leave another's eyes without shattering completely. She was no longer Willow—just an observer of the necessary act. She couldn't afford to connect with targets as fellow living beings; they had to be dehumanized into tasks to eliminate emotional consequences.

Thomas clutched at his reddening neck, panic rising in his widening eyes. His chair fell back with a clatter as he stumbled. Willow checked her watch, face blank, but her mind cataloged each spasm and every weakening twitch.

There was something beautiful about watching a person's life slip away from them. Call her sadistic. She may very well be, but watching the serenity wash over their faces as all of life's worries and problems no longer apply to them is beautiful. The way Willow sees it, she's helping him out. He would lead a bad life in the future anyway. He would wreck his family's business due to his entitlement, and most importantly, the young Howard heir was a growing threat to Carlos, so his time was up.