He'd decided to start with the guards. The first four had been nameless faces. Their deaths had come swiftly, at the point of a knife.
For the fifth, he'd made a bit of an exception to the order. It was only appropriate.
He entered the small, spartan flat through the bedroom window and found his target in the front room, gazing out the window, glass of red wine in hand. The perfect opportunity. Swift and simple. Cold and merciless. Justice.
Rage.
Drowning. Begging. Burning. Sobbing.
Slicing. Stabbing. Tearing. Rending.
Disemboweling. Dismembering.
It was the last time he fully expressed himself.