THE DEAD MAN whistles as he strolls out of the casino, grinning widely, his smug face illuminated by the glowing blue lights of the obnoxious sign above him that reads: Midnight Mistakes.
It's an apt name for a place that robs dreams from the unsuspecting and places them into the pockets of a man like the one she has her sights set on. A man overflowing with the money of the less fortunate and the blood of the innocent.
Of course, his depravation isn't the reason she's about to end his life; no, she has zero room in her twisted little mind for such grievances.
She isn't a saint, and she's certainly no hero — she isn't doing this for the people.
This is all for her, for revenge.
She tightens her cloak around her — one dyed a pale purple color meant to be remembered — and jumps from her spot on a rickety fire escape outside of an apartment just across the street from the casino. Her feet land nimbly on the wet concrete; the rain had stopped mere minutes ago and the uneven streets of Cape Carnelian, the capital of Antares, won't drain for days. She skirts around puddles of murky water and walks straight into the empty street.
The man stands in the middle of the sidewalk under a lamppost, phone next to his ear, no doubt calling one of his many chauffeurs. He is oblivious to his impending death, just the way she likes it. She savors the look of surprise on her victim's faces, the widening of their eyes as they recognize her, what she is. The pleading as they try to negotiate with the Angel of Death.
She silently pads up to him, pulling the two objects from her pocket that she acquired just for him, just for this moment. A pair of red and white dice rest in her hand, ready for action.
"Richard East," she purrs, and watches with greedy eyes as he jumps and turns to her, a scowl marring his otherwise handsome face.
His mouth opens, ready to fire off an insult. She steps in the light and those lips immediately close, tightening to the point that they become white with fear. She can imagine his heart pounding in his chest, beads of sweat forming on his brow, hands trembling. All the symptoms of complete and utter terror, the feeling her cloak sparks in anyone who has the misfortune of bestowing their gaze upon it.
"Oh Richard," she coos, her blood red lips tilting up into a shiver-inducing smile. "You thought it was your lucky night."
He is the gazelle, she the lion, and he isn't fast enough to outrun her.
The next morning, the police will find him dead on that same sidewalk, eyes glassy and lifeless, face morphed in horror, with a pair of dice down his throat.
✦ ✦ ✦
