Smoke from the underground seeps through the metal grates of the street and gather with the blanket of mist that hovers over the narrow alleyways. Rays of sunlight piece through the haze projecting bright speckled dots on the mold infested building walls. He is wearing a large black trench coat which drapes down to his large boots. A cigarette is lodged in a gap in his teeth, unlighted. Over his eyes is a pair of dark sunglasses. One would not expect him to see, except this is no ordinary man. Cloned for one purpose, the assassin sees perfectly well and knows what he is meant to carry out.

He sits and waits patiently as the swarms of civilians flood the crossroads. His eyes scan every face he sees from above as he peers through the cracks of the balustrade. A man dressed in a grey tailored suite with hair slicked back walks briskly on the sidewalk, a cellphone to his ear. Four large men walk in close proximity, two in front and two in behind. The man looks important, respectable, but a target. He slings the shining rifle around his chest and out from his trench coat, carefully placing it through the crack. The coat of brass on the barrel slowly erodes away as the scope follows the target. Through the magnifying glass, the mans greased hair is illuminated by a red cross. No matter where the man walks the red cross doesn’t move because the assassin is skilful, determined and inhuman. He lowers his heart beat to a near stop. What seems like the atlantic ocean in sweet discrete from his skin. His hand relaxes of the perfectly symmetrically trigger, waiting.   

He patiently waits to pull his finger closer to his body only when the man is out of sight. He walks into a thin alleyway, rubbish sprawled over the damp and rugged concrete. Drips of paint run down the walls like blood trickling down a body. As the man stops in company of his guards the bullet is released. A crack that echoes through the narrow alleyway where the target now lies. A rapid diagnosis of havoc injects into the swarm of oblivious civilians. Screams and cries chills your bones as if they were eating away at your mind. He quickly disassembles his gun and scurries down a set of grungy stairs to the hibernation of his car. Blue and red flashing lights illuminate the crime scene with men in flash blue suites frantically trying to find answers.

Feet firmly grounded, salty tears dribbling down your cheek and arms tensely grasping to the side of the chair while the other loosely holds the neck of a bottle of whiskey. The burning taste of hard liquor trickle down his throat is meant to allow him to forget. To be able to forget the deadly sins you have committed. However the dry, burning taste doesn’t wash away the guilt, only to cement it into your memory.  

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