A/N: Another new story! I know, I know, really? Anotherone? Well, I had this idea, and I wanted to see where it'd go, so yeah. Kind of an AU to my own story, the Agent and The Singer XD
Well, enjoy (:
Third Person POV
"Who—who are you?" he managed to choke out with her pretty little hands hidden by latex gloves and wrapped around his throat, slowly pushing him into the wall.
"Didn't I tell you already?" she sweetly said to him, still wearing the startling grey lingerie that he had never gotten the chance to take off of her, and the ripped up fishnet leggings he had torn.
It's most of the reason why he was being choked out right now instead of being dead. Those were some good quality fishnets.
"My name is Silena Grace sweetheart, and that's all you need to know. Got it?"
He nodded as much as he could, being choking slowly and all, and moved his hand to her thigh, hoping they could hit off where they continued. He also hoped that this was just some weird fetish moment and he could finally strip her down and have a good night for the first time in a long time.
"Touch me," she said sweetly, with a dazzling grin on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes, "and your hand ends up your ass."
He pulled his hand away slowly, so desperately wanting to touch her, but more desperately not wanting his hand shoving up his ass.
"So," he painfully said, "why are you here? I simply picked you off the street, and now you're choking me out?"
"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly a street walker."
"Well what are you gorgeous?"
She tightened her grip around his throat and growled, "I am your end, you ugly ass bitch. And calling me that just got you even closer to it."
She then pulled out a dagger with a 5 inch blade and about a 3 inch handle in a neat little holster. He started to struggle then, and she had an iron like grip for a girl with seemingly no muscle on her body whatsoever, so the struggle for survival for him was all meaningless.
Her hand gripped the handle and expertly flipped the holster off the one sided serrated blade, the other side neatly trimmed to a perfect edge.
He would've screamed if it weren't the fact that he had been running low on air and pretty close to death.
She would've easily stabbed him there, letting his blood slip all over the mattress, but she wanted to torture him. For some unexplained reason, she was mad at him.
And not only for the torn fishnets.
She barely even touched his bare chest with the blade and the skin cut open, blood pouring out of the little slit she had opened on his chest.
It slowly dragged down his chest, his screams heard from far away, a hand that looked very familiar to hers—Is it my hand? —slowly bring it down to his well-muscled abdomen and stopping at the hem of his underwear. It left a nice, clean diagonal cut down his chest that would've looked cool had he survived tonight.
Then she saw the same hand dragging it down the side of his face in a half circle, from the roots of his hair, through his eye brow, brushing near his eye, straight down through the middle of his lips, and stopped at his chin.
And it looked so much like hers—But it couldn't be…could it?—as it ran a line perpendicular to the cut on his chin, making a tiny cross on his chin with the cut the hand had made.
Then the hand moved back down to the middle of his abdomen—It can't be my hand…—and lightly pressed the tip of the serrated blade into the middle of the six muscles there.
The hand—I think it is mine—twisted the blade a full 360 degrees, opening a shallow, red circle and evoking a small whimper of pain.
The blade was pushed in ever so slowly by the hand—No, it isn't mine, I'd never do these things—and evoked a loud, long scream of pain from him as the serrated blade sunk deeper and deeper, centimeter by slow centimeter, until only the handle was the only thing sticking out.
He was losing consciousness from the pain at that point, and she knew he already would've died from what that hand did—This hand wasn't mine, it just looked like mine—but then another hand, most likely the other hand from this person, grabbed the handle and together they twisted the blade inside of him.
His insides were being twisted together, and even more cut open. She could only imagine what that felt like, but didn't want to find out her. More blood flowed out of the wound, soaking the bed and most likely even the mattress itself, but it didn't matter. As long as no hint of her was left.
He was about to black out in pain, and it was, blackness was already starting to consume his vision, and he thinks he was screaming. The pain made it too hard to think about anything else.
And then she even twisted the blade inside of him. He let out one last shriek of pain before blacking out to his surroundings.
As the blade came to its original position, the hand pulled it out of his chest and pulled a disinfectant wipe out of her boot. She wiped the knife once from handle to tip, and then lit the fire place up.
Thank God this guy was rich.
She tossed the red soaked wipe in the fire and even stuck the blade in it to clean it further. She went to the sink and filled it up with cool water, letting the blade cool.
She grabbed another wipe and wiped his lips since they had kissed and burned that wipe too. Now she wouldn't be found, again.
She replaced the knife in the holster, and put it in her boot again. She took of the ruined fishnets and threw them into the fire as well, since she could no longer out them to use. She grabbed a shirt and hoodie from his closet, slid into her jeans, and walked out of the room, heading immediately towards the elevator.
Time to disappear.
She rushed out so quickly, she forgot to throw the hood over her head. And casinos were always full of cameras.
