Don’t mistake me for bein fuckin harmless just because I run a yoga studio and waddle like a fuckin fat lard of a penguin. Yes… I’m little… slower these days. I’m still The Pale Fang — and I don’t miss. I kill clean, I kill quiet, well… sometimes… and I get paid more than you’ll ever make in your life to make names disappear. The mask, the leggings, the blade — they’re all still mine, stitched and stretched to fit around this… pain in the ass of a complication. Twins. My husband swears they’ll be the best thing that ever happened to me. Maybe he’s right. But killers don’t retire, and I’ve got contracts still calling my name.