The man huffs and puffs, wincing with every breath, and even then he still keeps talking. "Some people call this wisdom. I am not afraid."

"You are not very wise." Villanelle says with a disinterested air, confused at his deliriousness. She feels she want to make a point, even if he's only going to live for a few minutes more. "If you were, you would have ran."

She is hardly pensive in the face of her mortality. She knows how fragile it is, how it rests on the give of skin breaking to let a sharp knife past, or a nerve so simply severed. Bones crack under the right amount of force and her own heart thumps with the adrenaline churning through her veins when her target gasps their last lungful of air.

But at the same time, she's never thought of herself in the same way as her marks. They are breakable, awaiting their death, while she is a constant presence and as ephemeral as Death. It is her job, and she is very, very, very good at it. One day she may not be, but she is clever enough to plan for her chickens before that time comes. They will be well dressed chickens with enough good shoes and expensive makeup to last a lifetime.

She steps forward, shifting her weight from the leg she had landed on when he had thrown her down the stairs. Blinking the blood from her eye, she lets the rivulet trail down to her chin, plinking onto the floor. It doesn't matter if she leaves evidence behind. Everyone knows who she is now, and she is enjoying the spotlight. This time around, she plans on leaving a bigger message.

Look at what you've done. Look at what you made, and then did not appreciate.

The snivelling mess on the floor was an assassin too. Used by the Twelve along the Mediterranean coastline to enforce their traffickers. He should have been quicker, stronger. Now he lies on his bedroom floor broken beyond repair and hope, his brown-red hair stuck to his scalp, matted with blood. She had caught him running up the second flight of stairs, and sliced at his ankles, causing him to crash down and smash his nose. It had been a good sound, especially since her ears were ringing from hitting the floor when he had thrown her over the banister from the first floor landing. The shitty strip of rug in the hallway did nothing to cushion the impact.

Villanelle had judged the two storey apartment the moment she walked in. It was heavily decorated for someone who jetted off at the whim of a phone call. There were crappy little trinkets on every surface, souvenirs from countries visited for hits. He had let her in because she had pretended to be his new handler. Her serious face and fine suit helped convince him that she had information on a new job. And she had taken the time to falsely compliment his snowglobe collection, before cracking him in the chest with a large one containing a miniature of the Sagrada Familia.

He lies on the floor and moans, and tries to reach for his gun on the bed, leaving bloody hand prints over the silk covers. They slip under his wet fingers and Villanelle lightly knocks his hand away before stepping on it with her full weight, feeling the joints crack and spread under her polished black shoes.

"I am the best. You should not have pissed me off."

She aims another kick at his head and the man groans on the floor. Then she spits at him for a lack of words because her throat is tight with anger. Her hip twinges and she ignores it, pulling out her new knife. It has a serrated edge, built for cutting through meat, ideal for a butcher. She leans down, and tweaks at his broken nose.

"You were stupid to think that you could win. I have new friends now. We have good office banter, I will tell them all about how you screamed."

She cuts through his clothes quickly, turning his shirt and trousers to shreds before moving onto his white vest and underpants, leaving his socks and shoes on. She pokes at his hip with the knife, letting the blade bite into the skin in exactly the same place it hurts for her.

"Do you know what I am known for?"

The man swallows and his throat spasms, his breathing turns shallow. There's only the whites of his eyes and they fill his face.

Villanelle smiles widely, pleased for it. "You do! Good."

She takes her time. Before he begins screaming blue murder, she quickly kills him to stop curious neighbours knocking on the door, and then continues to make a mess, just to bolster her reputation. Each of her kills that week had steadily gotten worse.

"That will bruise badly. Maybe I will show Eve." She rubs at her side as she stands, sighing loudly. Then she winks conspiratorially at the dead body and whispers, "I still want her to touch me."

Before she leaves the apartment, she turns over the place quickly and methodically, just to confuse the local police further. She giggles to herself as she stabs the pillows on the bed, sending stuffing and feathers everywhere. Finally, to complete her message, she pulls out a blank postcard depicting Milan's Duomo, its white marble spires glinting golden in the afternoon's warmth, and leaves it resting on his bloody torso, just below his belly button.

Then Villanelle slides the dead man's mobile and laptop into her backpack, ready to leave for the train station. She takes a second to swipe the blood trickling down her face, wiping it off onto the wall and adjusts her suit jacket in the floor length mirror by the door before shutting the door behind her with a soft click.