The ghost

One

The eroding stench of crispy lead and smoky ash burnt the insides of his nostrils. A heavy smog devoured his senses, his tastebuds until all he could smell and decipher is the bitterness of burning metal. Though it might be a disgusting scent to others, it was a blissful reminder that he was doing exactly what he loves.

Killing people and getting paid for it.

He wasn't a psychopath, no. He just enjoyed the thrill, the blind numbing rush that filled his veins and fuelled his desires. It gave him purpose, an outlet for all the bent up aggression and anger he coils inside him. He used to hide it, the underlying destruction he kept clogged deep within himself, encased in bars with the lock bound tight.

People thought he was strange, a distant child who struggled to empathise with people. He would never smile, never laugh, never interact if it wasn't necessary. He didn't like affection or emotions as to him he saw them as a weakness. Something only used to shield you from the brutality of the world and make life harder than it already is. He didn't deem it important, being loved or cherished.

Not like he knew either of those. Growing up in foster care being thrown from family to family until he got to old-became unloveable didn't give him the gratification or affection a child like him should've had.

The only thing that ever and would ever bring him comfort or any human feeling was the perfection that is death. It was precise, clean and with only one ultimate outcome. He could understand that, death, killing. It made sense. Only one goal, one answer and that was to kill your target cleanly and without rattling any feathers.

A hitman seemed like the perfect job, like it was made for him. It ticked all the right boxes, matched his lifestyle and how he perceives the world. He was able to control what happened around him, his actions alone the deciding factor in weather someone lived or died. He liked that-the power of holding life and death in his hands. The unannounced grim reaper reigning down upon the world, gun at the ready to kill whoever is next on his list.

He became the perfect killer. A ghost who belonged nowhere, who had no one. He wouldn't be missed if he suddenly disappeared. No one would cry, weep or mourn him as no one ever cared about him. And for the first time that worked in his favour. Allowed him to become the man he is, the lethal weapon that could with one swipe of his hand or crack of his knuckles could kill anything dead in less than a second.

A talent endured from years of practice and expert training. It took him a while, he didn't pick up the skills he has now easily but through dedication and passion. He like anyone had flaws, almost failed a few missions, missed a few shots before he got his target but he got there in the end. Becoming one of the best hitman in the business. In his company he is known as the ghost who could get through any security, leave nothing but a shadow and be in and out in less than five minutes.

He was proud of that. Proud he was finally good at something which for once brought him what he believed to be joy. He was happy for the first time in his life and he wouldn't want to be doing anything else.

He heaved the heavy, slick black snipper off the stone edge it hanged from. His shoulder ached slightly from the excess weight it carried but he enjoyed the twinge. It reminded him of what he was doing, of how he wore the gun like a second skin.

He twists the silencer off the head, neatly placing it in his luxurious case he kept all his guns in. They were like trophies to him, something to be idolised and adored. He detached the gun into two pieces, slotting both into their precious homes.

Distant sound of sirens were beginning to grace the air, signalling to him he has to go. He stands up from where he's kneeling, dusting himself off to rid any germs daring to soil his expensive blank slacks. Grabbing his suitcase that homed his gun, he's stalking on foot towards the awaiting car geared and ready for him to slip in and go.