It was dark. He must've been asleep. He could hear the faint clacking of shoes on the tile flooring, gradually getting louder. It was a strange sensation, hearing such a sharp sound like that after being asleep for… How long had he been asleep? Surely not long… He'd never had a tendency to sleep longer than a couple of hours, even when he needed it.

The person who was producing the clacking was now opening his door, turning the doorknob noisily. Jizabel already had thought about what to say to the unwelcome guest- if you want to keep your eyes in their sockets, leave.

He was just about to raise his head from his arms and recite the words he had so many times in the past when the person brought forth an oil lamp and set it down right in front of him on his desk. It was bright and sudden, and Jizabel was temporarily stunned. He kept his head down on his desk, enjoying his own hot breath as long as he could before something was asked of him.

"Are you going to sleep all day, or do I have to interfere, as usual?" , came a voice from beside him. He jumped upon hearing it.

"Cassian? What the hell are you doing here?", he asked tiredly, angry for allowing himself to be frightened. He didn't like portraying himself as timid- it was a definite sign of weakness.

"Good to see you too, doc," Cassian retorted shortly, again scaring the groggy doctor.

With a reluctant groan, he sat up, rubbing his temples and at the same time attempting to nurse a headache. He blinked when the lamp's light caught painfully on his amethyst eyes, his pupils contracting frantically to adjust. He arched his back like an awakening cat and remained stretching for a moment, slightly enjoying the feeling of his vertebrae cracking and growling quietly.

The boy watched and laughed. "You're the only person I've met that growls when he stretches. Besides my dog, that is, and that's not even a person."

Jizabel's growl strengthened. "Instead of criticizing the way I stretch, why don't you tell me why you're here?" he replied, his voice icy and smooth. His eyes opened and he redirected his glare to Cassian.

He chuckled, trying to hide the small chill that coursed through his body upon seeing the fiery violet eyes stare into his. "Your fa- er, Alexis, asked me to deliver this note to you." He then offered out a piece of paper he held between his index and middle fingers.

Jizabel eyed it suspiciously for a moment, then cautiously took it as if it was going to bite. He started to unfold it, but paused and looked at Cassian expectantly. "You're still here?"

The hint took a second to register, but then the thirty year old laughed and, embarrassed, backed out of the room, knocking over some test tubes on a table on the way. Jizabel rolled his eyes impatiently and, when the door clicked shut, unfolded the note. Before setting his eyes on it, he tiredly shot out a hand, grasping a pair of small, golden glasses. He put them on and began skimming over the note:

Jizabel:

Below is a confidential list of lives that you need to take care of. You may use whatever technique you wish. I trust that this isn't a problem for Death?

He paused before reading the actual list and sighed. How utterly droll killing people was. It was beginning to be a taxing chore. He returned the paper to its original folded state and slipped it into a pocket on the inside of his lab coat.

After seeing that it was lying flat and neat against his chest (one of those picky doctor things), he stood and leaned against the wall, gazing at the opposite one in contemplation. How would he, as Alexis had so lovingly put it, "take care of" his next victims? He wandered to the other side of the room and began pawing delicately through his various chemicals and poisons, thinking out all the aspects, strengths and weaknesses of each and admiring all of them with a practiced eye. It had to be something quick and inconspicuous, yet painful and slow. That was simply his unique style. After a few more moments of deliberation, he reached forward and selected a small container of cyanide. After all, nothing could beat the classics. He took a syringe from another countertop and stuck the tip in the rubber lid of the cyanide, slowly drawing the clear liquid out with slender fingers. When he had a lethal dose, he proceeded to to store it carefully in his coat and leave the room as quietly and swiftly as a cat.

Jizabel was outside and strolling down the streets of London before anyone even knew he had left his room. If you were walking next to him, you would have thought he was an honest civilian, never a cold-blooded murderer with a syringe of poison concealed in the lab coat under his thin deep brown one. A little ways down the road he retrieved the list and glanced at the address, changing his general direction accordingly and approaching a large house as calmly as if he was taking a walk in the park.

Lucky enough for him, it looked as though the man he was after had had a recent dispute and was sitting on his front porch, head in his hands. Jizabel looked up to the sky and smiled slightly- it was just starting to fade into a most promising twilight. Perfect. Twilight was an excellent cover.

With the silence and agility of a fox, the doctor circled nonchalantly around the man, coming up behind him. Before the poor man knew what hit him, he was already sliding sideways, slouching on the stone steps leading to his home with a needle embedded in the side of his neck. Jizabel bent down, ripped the syringe out, cleaned it off with his coat and went on his way, yawning.

Upon entering Delilah's headquarters, he felt a strange tap on his shoulder. He was immediately put on the defensive as he turned around, a snarl on his face. His snarl faded into a quizzical expression when he found nobody there. He looked around to check one last time, but shrugged and walked into the building when his investigation found nothing. His mind was probably playing tricks on him. After all, killing a man could do that to you.

When he reached his room, he slid the brown overcoat off and hung it on a makeshift hook in his wall. He had to get a new one of those- the one he had now was simply unattractive. After thinking about the wall hook for another moment, he sat down at his pleasantly familiar desk and began fondly examining a dog skull he had found a couple of days ago. It was now bleached and the light from his oil lamp played on the ivory-colored teeth and jawbone. Sighing contentedly, Jizabel decided he had done enough work for one day and laid his head on his desk in his folded arms, closing his eyes for a bit…