I walk into the crowded pub, adjusting the hood over my head just in case. I have my contacts on, but I can't count on myself being beyond recognition. I glance at my watch- half past ten. My client should be here any moment.

As if a cue has been given, he sits. He's a tall man, I can tell this by his build, but he's hooded as well so I can't see his face. I don't mind much- my clients are usually hooded, too afraid to reveal their identities. It was rare to see one without a mask.

Sometimes I wonder why they bother with the hoods and balaclavas and masks- but I suppose ruining someone's life makes people queasy.

It was like that with me, at first, too. I was too afraid to make anyone miserable- too afraid to kill. But the soft Amy is gone now. Ever since that wretched man tried to kidnap my brother Dan and I, I've learnt that being a softy will never help. Now I know better- now I know that sometimes, desperate times call for desperate measures. In a way, this makes me feel better. When I get the feeling that I'm making a terrible person miserable, it's like a solace of sorts. But only terrible people. Scammers. Criminals. Murderers. I know the risks and I knew the danger; and I don't mind.

The man sits next to me, and smiles under his hood- something about the way his lips curled sent a shiver through me, which is not a common occurrence.

His smile widens as the bar lady approaches, smiling in turn. "What shall I get you two?" she asks in a sugar-coated voice.

"I'll take some beer," the strange says. His voice is cold, and somewhat…familiar. Like an old memory I can't grasp.

The lady nods and smiles, turning to me and repeating the question.

"I'll just have some water if that's okay," I say, trying to sound casual. She raises a blond eyebrow and walks away, coming back moments later with our orders and moving on to someone else far across form where we sir.

"So, tough assassin is a woman?" the stranger asks, an amused smile visible under the shadows of his hood.

"One you shouldn't underestimate." I say coldly. I was mean, lean, and eighteen. "And I'm a pre-assassin, Mister. I don't kill. I only-"

"Maim, injure, ensure misery, blah ," he says in a exasperated voice. "Listen, I have a name for you- a guy. He's about eighteen, owns his own house, and the worst person imaginable."

I lean forward, relaxing as we get to business. I take a sip of water to show that I'm still listening.

"Trust me, you'll want to kill this one." he says with a sharp smile.

"What is he, this time? A thief? A hacker, perhaps?" I inquire, getting more curious by the second, wondering what horrible thing someone my age could have done. I've only ever killed twice before in my life, and only in rage. The images of the dead still haunt the back of my mind.

"You do research, don't you?" asks the stranger. "You'll know. I'll send you the money once the job is done, sweetheart." He downs his beer in a gulp, and slides me an empty paper before putting both hands in his pockets and strolling away into the crowded night, losing himself in the large group of people easily.

I feel a chill rush through me as I remember his voice, his irking smile…A feeling I cannot shake off takes over me. Pushing all my suspicions away, I pick up the paper and turn it over, and stare.

Only two words are written on the paper, and they feel too wrong to be true.

Ian Kabra.