Silence mantled the night. Footsteps, cautious of detection, padded briskly over the rooftops. The accompanying pair of sharp eyes searched for signs of life on the streets below, but found none. Everything was silent, and everything was still. Lips pulled upwards into a solemn smile, slowly crawling its way over a normally stolid expression. A blade was unsheathed, reflecting shimmering, silvery moonlight inside the intricate carvings. Its carrier paused momentarily to admire the smith work, but soon remembered the pending task at hand. Breaths came in dense, hot rasps, and the smile that had once lit the face with kindness faded as the blade slid back into his belt, emitting an echoing scrape. Footsteps continued towards their destination.
Silence.
It wasn’t the first time Vincent had made use of the rooftops. They were convenient—perfect roadways for a killer: commonly deserted, and ignored at night, when sparkling lights threaded the skies, distracting the eyes of passerbys below. The night was an assassin’s happy hour. Nothing was impossible when armed with the blanket of darkness, if you knew how to make use of it. It was, however, the first time he had been ordered to take a life.
The air had been warm in headquarters that night, and he’d been engaging in—admittedly, crapulent—political sparring with a few friends. He had been quite shocked, when he’d heard the Captain had wanted to speak with him. However, he’d excused himself without hesitation, praying to sound at least slightly coherent in his foreman’s presence.
“How old are you, Vincent?” He beckoned him into the office with his left hand, gesturing towards a chair by the fire with his right. His smile was nothing short of warm and welcoming, but Vincent hadn’t been fooled. He knew he was to watch his tongue, or else have it be cut out.
“I am twenty-two sir.”
“That’s a young age to be involved in such a… business as this.” He lifted a glass of wine to his lips, peering at the young assassin over his chalice with criticizing eyes.
“It is, sir. But I do think I am faring well. Folia is a gifted teacher.”
“Is that so?” He rested the glass on the table beside him and crossed one leg over the other, chuckling to himself. “Even you are two decades that woman’s senior, mentally. She isn’t fit to teach a dog to eat. Nevertheless, I am confident you are prepared for what is in store for you.” Vincent furrowed his eyebrows and squinted at his hands, ignoring the backhanded insult to his teacher.
“Sir, I am afraid that I do not understand.”
The Captain raised an eyebrow at the young assassin’s confusion. His lips pulled into a gloating smirk as he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “You would have, if you had taken care to take up the practice of drinking in moderation, Mr. Valentini. You would be wise to have a strong cup of coffee and a cold shower before you receive your details tomorrow morning…”
“Folia.” Vincent hissed into the darkness. He checked for turning heads over his shoulders. “Folia.” Just as much as he knew his teacher could ease his thoughts, he knew that she would not answer him. Tonight, she could not be his mentor, but a supervisor. Vincent did not see why he had been instructed to kill Mandel Thorne, but he knew was bound to do so. He did not refuse, though he had wanted to. As he’d been aware, his first assassination job was inevitable.
Frustrated, he cursed at his teacher—in no particular direction—earning the first sign of her presence, a small chuckle. She then fell silent once more, and Vincent was left with no sound but that of his footsteps, and his rapidly beating heart.
