Minuet [Closed]

[Blade]

He watched as she exited the bathroom and wandered on by down the stairs. He heard her response and shrugged, not minding that she couldn’t see it. At this point he wasn’t even trying to annoy her, more shocked than anything else that she hadn’t died long ago due to her own flippancy. He would say it was one big misdirection and she was planning something bigger to try and kick him curbside, but her emotions bled honesty. And he knew she’d never seen one of his kind before, else she wouldn’t have said so—again, she’d bled emotive honesty. She should have been shocked to see him, surprised.

Stupid it was then.

It only made sense if she’d had no previous experience with someone like him. Jeeze, maybe she was a sociopath—totally incapable of expressing things like fear. Most hitmen and women were, so she was in the perfect line of work. But, damn, when the luck ran out she was going to get crushed.

He sauntered down the stairs, half wondering what it would take to get her to react to him. If she didn’t? Well, he’d just toddle off somewhere else. Maybe grab a drink or something, play peeping Tom to couple of idiot kids. Scare a few people. That was always a thrill.

He made it back to her kitchen and opened a box, immediately going through her packed things. After a brief appraisal of steel pot he dumped it behind him. It clattered on the floor and banged loudly as he went for the next item, a glass pitcher.

Looked old.