Honey

dagger

CW: this chapter contains mentions of violence and blood.

Violet's POV

I pulled the dagger out of my target's chest, kicking him with my black combat boots and watching as he fell back at my mercy with his eyes open in shock.

My eyes were blank as I took note of his pained expression when he took his last breath.

I pulled out the old flip phone I had been assigned for the job, took a picture and quickly sent it to the only number in the call log before shoving it back into my pocket and putting my dagger back in its sheath.

I had been careful not to touch anything at the scene; throughout my years with the agency, I had developed a sense of meticulousness and perfection that was admired by my superiors.

My dagger was rarely used, I preferred poison. Quick, easy and most importantly; not messy.

They called me Black Mamba at the agency. It was either that or Agent 19, I preferred the former. Black Mambas were dangerous; quick and lethal with a 100% mortality rate when left untreated. 

And that's exactly what they said I was. A cold-blooded and talented killer.

This man had done something that I did not take lightly, I savoured his demise beyond just the job.

When I followed him from the disgusting bar he had been a regular at for the past 3 weeks into the dingy alleyway next to it, I overheard him speaking to his friend on the phone; bragging about the crude sexual assault he had committed the night before on an unsuspecting woman.

I knew then that he had to pay (which he did. Painfully).

I tugged on my jet-black helmet, tugging my long dark hair into it and kicked my feet onto my sleek motorcycle, zooming my way up to the middle-class section of the city to my apartment.

I climbed up the fire escape to the 4th floor, shimmying my way into the window to avoid seeing my neighbours in the hallway. I had only been here for a month and they had been trying to welcome me into the building.

I did not want to be welcomed. I would be gone from this place within a few weeks without a trace anyways. That's how a job always went. Show up. Kill. Onto the next one.

Usually, I stayed in a motel since I didn't even unpack the few boxes I called my own. But this time my boss told me there were two different jobs in this piece of shit city.

I didn't know when my next target would be sent to me so I figured renting an apartment under an alias would be easier and less suspicious than staying in a motel for a few months.

It's not like anyone even knew my real name.

"Violet" scrawled on a piece of paper was the only identity I had when Boss found me bundled up in a little box outside the police station.

To anyone else who made my acquaintance, I was either the last face they saw before death or a nameless girl passing through.

I slipped off my boots and my hooded jacket, stripping out of my black turtleneck and black cargo pants as I made my way into the bathroom only in my underwear.

I braced my hands on the sink, looking at the red hue of the man's dried blood on my fingers and how they stained the white marble of the sink.

My gaze drew up to the mirror and I stared at my reflection, taking in the cold features of my face. Features that came from nowhere.

I ducked my head when I saw nothing interesting, stripping the rest of my clothing and getting in the shower to let steaming hot water run down my body.

As I scrubbed my hands, I watched the blood run down the drain.

Blood always washed away, but my sins never did.

a/n

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