December 17th, 2002. 11:46 pm.

“I’d do anything for you, baby. I adore you, love.”

Those were the last words you heard whispered into your ear, like a soft melody ringing throughout your ear canal before he slipped off into the dead of night to fulfill his purpose, his job.

Your boyfriend is an assassin. There’s no other way to put it. You know exactly what he does, and as the thought seeps into your mind, like it does every night, keeping you twisting and turning and stirring for all hours of the night, you hear a tapping on your window—tender taps done with the edge of a nail. You sit up, observing your boyfriend crawl through the tight space, which is the window. He fell on the ground, however, groans and uncomfortable whimpers vibrated off his throat. Something was wrong. Though the moonlight outside peaking through the curtains provided little light, it was enough to see him clutching at his neck, with a constant flow of something trickling down his forearm.