Your family never was "close" to the church or what went on in it, so you never went to church as a kid. You were always one of the few people who wandered along the streets on Sunday when everybody else was sitting on a hard wooden bench, listening to the things God wanted them to hear. Pathetic. This whole religious stuff was just stupid in your eyes. You never believed in any of these things, not in demons and not in angels . You believed in yourself because if God or any of those creatures really existed, they would at least have shown themselves. It was a tradition in your family to take part in a ritual so your soul would be sacrificed to a demon when you die. That stupid ritual was the reason for the pentagram on your back and even then nothing happened. If this bloody demon really cared for the soul he got sacrificed, he would at least have shown up or left a message but there was nothing but a nasty, scarred pentagram and a family of pathetic people who thought that demons existed. You wouldn't believe in this whole hocus-pocus until the day it would become reality. It would be the day on which the shadow of your dreams shows its face.

11:00 A.M.

Like every Sunday you walked along the street. Unlike the last days, the weather was bad again. It was cold so you needed a coat, and when you left the house it started to rain. The rain went on and you held your black umbrella over your head as you walked along the pavement next to the Hyde Park. A few cabs passed your way and every time they did, your dress got a little bit wetter. It was a good choice to wear the old and simple black dress, you thought to yourself. If you wore the more extravagant dress with the corset it would have been ruined by the dirt that came along with the water from the street.

You walked on and sat down on a relatively dry bench, so you could rest for a moment. The umbrella was still placed over you and your boots were surprisingly dry inside. On the outside, they were wet and dirty so you knew you would have to clean them as soon as you got home again. As you sat on the bench, you used the time to watch the people passing by. It was something you often did, because you wanted to learn something about them. It was your goal to read them just like you read books. You often just sat somewhere and watched the people surrounding you, trying to predict what the strangers would do next. Maybe this habit came along with your profession because at work you did the same: sit and watch. Seemingly, nobody wanted someone else to die at the moment or else they would have contacted you. What a pity. You quickly became bored of too much free time, so you would have welcomed a new victim very much.

When you sat on that bench, something came back to your mind: Your dreams or your nightmares, to be precise. This cold shadow that kept creeping up in them. Also your past. You had a bad feeling about the nightmares, what of course was kind of normal. Who wouldn't if they woke up screeming at least once or twice a week? Sometimes you refused to sleep because you didn't want your nightmares to make your sleep bad. You tried your best to keep the signs of insomnia covered up, so nobody would doubt to question your profession. Thanks to your name and your insane family you had a reputation to loose. One mistake could cost you everything, especially as a woman. You sighed and silently wished that your nightmares would disappear magically so you could at least sleep peacefully as your victims but they sure wouldn't.

It soon stopped raining and you stood up from the bench. You fished your pocket watch out of your handbag and looked at it, suprised that it was later than you thought. "Let's make some money, little girl.", you muttered to yourself and walked back to your flat. Your father used to say this to you when you were little and he was going to attempt a new 'job', so you kind of took over this habit and said this to yourself, every time you did your circular route around your "information spots" in London.

06:25 P.M.

With your dried umbrella in your hand you walked down the street to your favourite pub, which unfortunately was rather far away from your home and the final destination of your route. Your feet hurt and nobody had known about a suitable job for you, so you were a bit frustrated. Sometimes you weren't very lucky, even though you basically were the best one in the business of making people go silent forever.

You sat on the barstool next to the wall and leaned your umbrella against it, ordering a glass of whiskey as you walked by. Paul, who was working at this place every night, just waved at you so you knew he understood. It was kind of your ritual: Every time you walked into this bar you sat on the same barstool and ordered the same whiskey from the same guy, no matter how your mood was. Paul was a middle-aged man who used to work as a fisherman until he discovered his passion for cooking. This man made the best fish and chips you could imagine and also knew the best jobs the underground had to offer. He was truely a treasure to you and kind of like a crazy uncle to you.

"Aye missy, ya came here pretty late today. Anythin' special happened?", you heard Paul scream over the table as an unknown man, who looked like one of the fishermen, handed you your drink. Paul had just reached it out in your direction and they knew what to do. "The Founders Arms" was one of the few places you kind of felt like home. "I was looking for a job but there weren't any.", you told Paul right away, "And I overslept today so I went out an hour later than usual." Paul looked at you and smiled. Of course your crazy uncle had a job for you to offer, you could tell by his smile. "I heard about somethin' today, if you're interested. Not really a big deal but better than nothin', huh?"

You took a sip from your whiskey and leaned yourself against the bar. He was right. Not big was at least better than nothing. "I'm listening.", you simply answered, interested in what he had to say. "Do you know this friendly old man who has this bakery opposite to this creepy funeral parlour? He's got a daughter who wants to inherit the bakery as soon as possible because her father seems to dislike her more and more so she's anxious that she might won't get the bakery after his death.", Paul told you while he was serving some more drinks. It really was not really big but you haven't had anything better to do. "Tell her I'll do it.", you mumbled into your glass and drained it in one sip.

This basically was how you got your orders: You walked through London, met with your underworld contacts and mostly got the orders to kill somebody. Sometimes you got other requests that required your skills but you didn't want to do most of them. You were a killer, not a dog who looked after people and protected them in the case of an attack, so protecting some uninteresting people was not worth your precious time.