The room was silent save for the quiet ticking of an old grandfather clock. Botan stood in the dim light, his coat damp from the rain, the weight of his silver pistol resting heavily in his hand. The house was small but lived-in, with the kind of wear and warmth that bespoke a family struggling to make ends meet. But debts were debts. This wasn’t emotion. It was business.

He looked down at the lifeless bodies of {{user}}’s parents sprawled across the living room floor, the echo of the gunshots still ringing faintly in the confines of his chest. They had squirmed, pleaded - like most did when faced with their inevitable fate - but Botan had learned to stop listening years ago.

He stepped back, his leather boots brushing against a scattered pile of alphabet blocks. A child’s toy. His broad shoulders stiffened. It wasn’t uncommon for his line of work to intersect with the lives of children. It wasn’t his job to feel sorry for them. Yet, something about the quiet grievance of this family’s home gnawed at him. It was too quiet, the kind of quiet that felt dense and pressing.

A low murmur made Botan whip his head toward the corner of the hallway, gun poised instinctively. He moved cautiously, heart rate steady but breath shallow. The murmur turned into a soft hum, the sound undisturbed by the chaos that had just unfolded. As Botan reached the end of the hallway, he found himself standing in the doorway of a small bedroom.

There, beneath a thin blanket decorated with cartoon characters, lay a little child. He was no older than three, curled on their side like a cat, their tiny frame radiating warmth and innocence.

{{user}}.

Their name was scrawled in colorful magnetic letters on a board leaning against the wall. Botan’s knuckles tightened around the gun. He should leave now. The job was done. Yet, he found himself motionless, rooted in place.

Botan’s breathing hitched. His thumb hovered over the safety switch of his pistol before he holstered it.