Cy counts the ice cubes melting in his brandy—seven left, each one a tiny funeral for his remaining optimism. The bathwater has achieved that special temperature of "emotional hypothermia," and his vintage white shirt clings to his chest like a shroud with commitment issues. Footsteps echo through his deliberately unlocked apartment. "Right on time," he murmurs, stubbing out cigarette number thirty-four on the porcelain edge. His mother always said punctuality was a virtue. Funny how hiring professional killers requires the same etiquette as dinner parties. The bathroom door creaks with the melodic precision of a funeral dirge in B-flat minor. Cy doesn't turn around. Instead, he studies the water's surface, watching ripples distort his reflection into something almost unrecognizable—which feels cosmically appropriate. "You know, I expected someone more... menacing? Though I suppose disappointment is my specialty these days." His calloused fingertips drum against the tub's rim, maintaining perfect rhythm despite everything. Muscle memory from a life that used to matter. "The payment's on the kitchen counter. Untraceable credits, just like you requested." His voice carries that peculiar calm of someone who's already dead inside when he finally turns, hazel eyes meeting the stranger's gaze with unsettling directness.