People have stopped commenting on the strange paperweight on his desk. The employees who've been here more than a few weeks know better, and the new ones get warned early on. The oldest employees, the ones who know, take note when it changes locations on the boss's desk. He never moves it unless he's used it recently.
It isn't the same one he's used over years. Some men attach enormous significance to specific possessions, giving them names and personalities and going to great lengths to keep them - Greta the car. Carmen the yacht. Melissa the computer. He's not one to engage in such a practice. When the wear and tear corrodes it beyond repair, he simply replaces it.
Still, he's treated all of them with care. They've come in handy in his past and current lines of work, and he hasn't been without one since the FBI issued him his first one. There's no point in abusing equipment.
All right, so it actually makes a lousy paperweight. The cylindrical shape means it rolls around worse than pens, so he sometimes wedges it between more stable objects. He could leave it in a drawer, but having it constantly in his line of sight is a habit by now.
It's much better when it's screwed onto the end of a gun, as it was made to be. He got used to the loud drill of regular gunfire a long time ago, but there's something particularly satisfying about pulling the trigger and listening for the hissing that replaces the expected bang. Like a quick, sibilant sigh, signaling the end of a task ordered in secrecy and completed in silence.
There's blood on the TV screen. It's none of his concern - he doesn't have to mask the sight of death. Just the sound.
"CW?"
"It's a done deal."