Do I really want to do this?
It was not a question he asked himself often, especially in circumstances like these. And yet, as he stood over his quietly sleeping form, the thought had crossed his mind.
How long had he been doing this? So long it was hard to remember a time when he didn't. When his life wasn't driven by violence, wasn't fueled by bloodshed. He remembered a time when he was happy, living a quiet unassuming life as a butler for a wealthy, caring family.
And then fire. And then emptiness. And then? Then there was only the work.
The first three had been easy, or so it seemed at the time. Later contracts would test his skills in much the same way. But those three, those first three, were his prey. He stopped at nothing to make sure they paid for their crimes against him.
Against him. No. Such selfishness. Against his family.
Those first three had paved the way for more work. Far more than he had also suffered similarly at the hands of such men. They saw what he did, found out how to contact him, and the work had begun. Not always the best work, the most virtuous work, but he never questioned it. The chances were if he was at their door, they had done something or other to put him there.
Not always, of course. But those clients always paid their dues in the end. To him or to others.
And now he was in a position to collect on dues that were sorely deserved.
And still the thought flit across his mind.
Why? He had done everything to deserve this. Everything to bring him crashing down and to summon the Reaper to his bedside. Why did he feel sympathy for this of all creatures?
Perhaps it was not the man in question. Perhaps it was simply a distaste for the work.
He had felt it, niggling at the edges of his mind for some time now. The job in Vienna. The disaster in Athens. The massacre at Barcelona. Things had not been going well for him recently. Now this, a betrayal of the highest order by a client who had ordered him to perform the very worst of his trade. It had only been by the grace of his silver tongue and the pragmatic sensibilities of his client that had not had to kill the prosecutor. A lucky ricochet which had saved the officers he had been forced to flee from. Now it was time to bring down the curtain on this debacle and move on.
And yet the question still lingered.
He did not wish to linger long. Every moment he spent wrestling with his psyche was an invitation for a guard to pass by, for his target to wake up, for his resolve to weaken. But he could not simply ignore it. Not this time.
So he made a decision. He would raise the knife, press it against the carotid artery, and wait. If he felt something, anything at all, for the target or for what he was about to do, he would walk away.
He removed the knife from his inner sleeve with a flick of his wrist and bent down. Gently, he pressed the blade against the neck of the sleeping man, and waited.
The silence pulsed around them. Any movement, any noise, would surely provoke action on his part. There would be no other choice. Perhaps that is what he had hoped for.
But nothing happened.
Time passed, and eventually, another thought crossed his mind.
What am I waiting for?
Feeling nothing, Shelly de Killer gently slid the blade across Matt Engarde's neck, and in a few moments, he was no more.