Surrounded by walls stretched towards the sky there were homes of marble, structures of grandiose splendor. They were for the rich, for the people who danced the nights away and drank to their hearts content. No more than a five minute walk away, surround by mud and filth, the homes were ramshackle. Haphazardly made from thin planks of wood, many in disrepair. They were for the poor, the forgotten. No one danced, and those who did drink did so because they had given up on life long ago, now spending their small wage in the taverns.

Within these dismal conditions a person did what they could to survive. It was no different for you, who found that just working at a shop in town couldn't reliably provide you with enough income to even fulfil your basic needs. So, on the side, you did dirty work for the rich by discretely disposing of their enemies for them. Under the moonlight, weaponry in hand, you would sneak past the protected walls of the rich's sanctuary. Silently tainting their peace with an undercurrent of death, and a whisper of trouble in their perfect town.

Tonight your target was a man by the name of Thatcher Demelie. Your client's motive for hiring you was simply that she didn’t like the up-and-coming businessman, claiming that he was a threat to her own business. While a rather shallow reason, she had offered to pay well. So, you accepted, now finding yourself standing over the target as he lay sprawled out on his bed. His brown hair a tangled mess, and his mouth slightly agape as he slept peacefully.