An excerpt from the short story I am writing (which may never see the light of day, knowing my restless ways) -
She waited for exactly 2 seconds after his last breath, 2 costly seconds as the alarm could be raised anytime. But this was the one concession she allowed herself, the one time where she forgot her usual sterile efficiency - the fruits of her effort. Because she wasn’t just an assassin, she was a killer. The satisfaction of a kill – that was her release. She didn’t know what that made her, or what made her like that, and she didn’t care. They couldn’t make a movie on her, movies gave justifications. A horrific act witnessed as a child, mum didn’t love you enough, your daddy raped you – not her life. Her past was nondescript. She was a natural born killer.
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