Death had 5 senses.
5 sweet, sickly senses.
Blood.
A scent.
The sound of that last trembling breath.
Taste.
Feelings.
I partook in them all, of course. But if I had to choose, taste—ah, the taste was always my favourite. Do not worry or excite yourself, I am not a vampire or a cannibal of some sort, nor am I a serial killer.
Though, I'll admit, "serial killer" isn't entirely inaccurate.
The difference lies in the details. You see, my victims weren't random. They were chosen. Judged. Guilty. Their deaths weren't a compulsion, they were a job.
But I digress.
The taste of death. Oddly, taste somehow summed each of these 4 senses up.
The taste of that thrill, the one that rushed through your veins and down your spine like an engulfing flame. The taste of that metallic splash of red that sometimes coated your lips. The taste of that power when fear strikes their eyes as they squirm and cower and try to get away.
Not what you were expecting, was it?
And yet, the taste of death sours—oh, how it sours, when one suddenly finds themselves at its recieving end.
Still reading, Brave One? Foolish, perhaps, but brave nonetheless.
I suppose since you've decided to crack a peak into an assassin's journal, perhaps you deserve a story.
Settle down now, I'm about to string a tale dripping with blood and regrets.
But this story isn't about me—well, not entirely. There's someone else. Someone who showed up when I least expected it, armed with a mouth that wouldn't shut up and an uncanny ability to make every situation 10 times worse. Let us call him X—for that is what he is. A variable. An anomaly. A maddening relentless force of mischief.
And then there's her.
Sweet, quiet, tragic little thing. The kind of girl you'd see in a coffee shop, headphones over her ears, sipping tea and reading a book too big for her hands. The kind of girl who was completely out of place in a family of monsters.
She's the girl everyone wants dead. Including herself.
You'd think that would make my job easier. It didn't.
All you need to know is I have made a lot of mistakes, but this one might actually kill me.
The only thing that should have mattered was the job. The only thing that was meanttoexist was the target.
And now the target? Her name's Charlotte.
The mission? Assassinate Charlotte.
Oh, how often I did the exact opposite.
I should've just done the job. Ended it cleanly, swiftly, as I had with so many before her. But no. I had to get curious, and had to dig deeper. Now, here I stand, knee deep in secrets, lies and the kind of chaos that couldn't be undone.
So be prepared, for this is no love story, no fable of redemption, nor one of those "and he lived happily ever after" fairy tales. It's a confession. A bloody, dark, and occasionally funny confession of a man who should've just stuck to the damn job.
So, stranger, you have chosen to read.
Welcome to the diary of an assassin.
Proceed with caution, for this tale will stain you. And, oh, try not to die before the end.
And if you fall before the final word, I shall not mourn you.
Or don't. I don't care.