"You don't want to do this," Quinn pleas. Her pale hand rises before her face, fingers trembling. Her carefully placed foundation is smeared down her cheeks, marred by the heat of her tears.
"I don't?" Kurt asks. He brings the thin barrel of his gun and taps it against his lips. The metal is warm from his gloved grip.
A hiccupping sob escapes her lips. "Please."
Kurt shrugs, then aims.
"We're friends." Her chest quivers, and her words shake.
He smiles. "We are." The silencer quiets the shot, but a powerful thwap tears through the air. Blood splatters against the peach colored wall and her body slumps to the floor. Kurt tugs out an egg-white handkerchief and dabs at his face. He steps backwards before the pool of red reaches his shoes.
His phone rings. He doesn't look at the screen. "It's done. I expect the money in my account by midnight." The voice agrees.
The sun is bright and Kurt slips out his sunglasses to protect his eyes. His SUV beeps as he walks down the driveway. His keys jangle from his fingers. His Sparrow presses gently against his side as he turns, but doesn't poke. It's too snug in its holster for that.
He rolls his shoulders as he starts the car. The soundtrack to Rent blares to life, beginning with La Vie Boheme. Kurt sings along.