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It's a blessed day in the wretched underworld of hired killers.

A day made even more generous with my latest job request. A female NASCAR Driver. It's a first for me, most of my marks are stockbrokers and executive officers, politicians and worthless royalty, but I suppose even minor athletes have their fair share of enemies.

The thought of $25,000 lining my sparse bank account almost leaves me giddy. To think of what 25k could solve. Heal up. Cure.

Then the bitter tang of cheap coffee reminds me not to jump the gun.

Good treatment costs money. Medicine doesn't just rain out of the sky. Doctors don't work for free.

So, neither do I.

I kneel underneath my bed and pull out my rifle case, dented and bent from previous missions. 25k would mean better equipment. 25k would mean tighter disguises. 25k would mean peace of mind and one less parent to mourn.

I just hope my shitty family insurance coverage lasts long enough for me to, you know, use it.

I pace around my square bedroom, mapping out the next 365+1 days in my head. I don't eat much to begin with, so I don't have to worry about food, and I can live in a cardboard box for months if need be. It wouldn't be the most comfortable lodging, but I can't draw attention to myself while I'm tailing her. The sooner I take Mrs. Enderby out, the sooner I can be done with it. No need to drag this out, especially with a client so concerningly desperate.

(I want it quick and painless. Neat.)

A year isn't the longest contract I've ever had, but it's not the shortest either. A man from Bolivia once paid me 100k to tail his former business partner for five years, only to shoot him in the back of the head as he exited a city train in central Barcelona. I never figured out what the train had to do with anything, but the client always ended our correspondences with "choo-choo motherfucker," so perhaps it's best I don't know.

But this new inquirer...

They're different.

Inexperienced, guileless, and too soft to be running around on the dark web seeking out assassins like me. Mrs. Enderby must've wronged them terribly for a client like that to make a request like this.

But it's not my job to ask questions, and even less so to answer them.

(I mean, how should I think of you? It matters to me.)

I open my laptop (bought on blood money like every other post-2015 technology in my mom's house) and create a blank file. A ticking timer. To keep me accountable.

Case X: Melanie Enderby

31,536,000 seconds until completion...

31,535,999 seconds until completion...

Hopefully, Mrs. Enderby is enjoying what remains of her short life to the fullest.

(Don't you want to know why I want her dead?)

It's not my job to ask questions.

I have to prepare.

What will be, will be.