Archive of Our Own ^beta

For Angel

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Disgusting. 

There was just something about gold. It didn’t matter the karat, but closer to 24 karat, the deeper his disgust brewed. It settled like a fog inside the mind. Sticky hatred caused his eyes to burn. 

Women and men alike flaunted their jewels as if there weren’t children several miles down the road starving to death on the streets. Gemstones heavy enough to distort the fingers they were worn on flashed in the night as the cretins greeted one another, kissing the air and bubbling with faux laughter. 

In truth, they certainly all hated one another. Jealousy ran as rampant as their Hollywood crimes did. They pushed silver and gold up each other’s noses, flashing blood diamonds and platinum. They sneezed, allergic to anything grown in a lab or ethically. 

He may have donated millions to charities. She, perhaps, posted pictures of her ass on Instagram with anti-bullying captions. Videos proclaiming racism may be bad, actually flooding social network streams. All the while, money poured into shell corporations and off-shore banks from sweatshops and slavery in every other part of the world. 

It didn’t matter if the older man the model hugged close was a pedophile. It didn’t matter that he probably beat his wife and kids to death. Those liars. After all, the kangaroo courts believed him. Why not everyone else? 

Disgusting. Repulsive. Evil. 

The face of evil wore a gleaming white smile while proclaiming how much they donated to causes around the world. Nevermind the leftover coke still on the nares. 

Evil. 

Dakarai Zoheir wiped sweat from his brow. The California heat never let up. Light pollution smothered the stars in the fallen night. Even the moon didn’t seem to be dressed bougie enough to attend the reception occurring below. 

The mansion where the reception was being held was, possibly, the most glorious building Dakarai ever laid eyes on. The pristine gardens ignored the heat, still blooming large, colorful flowers. Neatly trimmed hedges displayed different polygonal shapes, decorating the marble pathway that wound from the front gate around the entire premise. 

From his perch in the low mountains, Dakarai saw several other buildings on the grounds, all still made of the same smooth sandstone as the mansion below. Carved columns, shaded windows, and many balconies jutted from the main building. Water features curved around each building; unnatural streams and pools filled with gaudy fountains. Lights flashed from beneath the water, creating faux stars beneath the still, black waves. 

Reaching up, Dakarai tugged on his tie, adjusting it. He pulled his hand away. It had taken hours to get the tie on. He could not afford to ruin his hard work. 

Nor could he afford to blow his cover.

Dakarai stood from his crouch, taking inventory of his person. He had tucked his black undershirt into his equally black slacks, which matched shades perfectly. The dress shoes on his feet shone with polish and mirrored his own scowling expression back at him. The suit jacket he had was just as black and buttoned in the front. His tie was silver, creating a statement piece down the middle of his thin chest. 

Pulling out a box from his pocket, Dakarai sighed before slipping several silver bands around his fingers. In the hidden compartment beneath the floor of the box, Dakarai pulled out his last gaudy ring.

But unlike his faux silver, this one was the real thing. A thick golden band trimmed with small blood diamonds that cost a fortune. Just the sight of it nauseated Dakarai. 

He wished to drop it off the mountain. Have it be lost forever in the rocks and dry, yellowed Californian grass. Instead, he slipped it onto his left ring finger. 

He slipped the box back into his pocket. 

Lastly, Dakarai patted his sides, feeling for the twin guns he kept close to his torso. His daggers were strapped to the outside of his thighs and sharpened to a deadly point. 

Dakarai checked his burner phone, reading over his instructions again. 

He was used to not exactly knowing who his clients were. Most of them weren’t exactly keen on letting someone who could kill them a hundred different ways know their identity. Dakarai could respect that. 

Most clients always left a trace of something. Maybe they forgot their VPN. Or perhaps they didn’t use technology to change their voice. Or they left too much personality in their texts. Maybe they were too close to the target, which exposed their identity. Perhaps they allowed too many names to slip. 

This client wasn’t like any of those. This client left nothing behind, left nothing to be identified, and had given him some of the strangest instructions.  

Dakarai didn’t have a name for his client. Not even a clue to their possible ethnicity or gender either. 

Whoever they were, they knew him too well. Knew him well enough to leave a burner phone during his last job. Knew what sort of password he’d try to unlock it as well. 

They seemed to know his every move before he’d ever make it. The thought sent shivers up Dakarai’s back. 

However, although as secretive as this client was, Dakarai was certain on one thing; this was not only one client. It had to be a group effort. He couldn’t believe it wasn’t. 

The instructions were dry to read and left Dakarai choking on boredom. Lawyer-speak never sat well with him. But he understood well enough. They had already given him their foolproof plan and had already acquired and delivered the ring now sitting on his finger. 

Now it was up to him. 

Dakarai steadied his breathing. He had done many similar jobs before. He had… put to rest many bad actors, traitors, and those vying for too much political power. But never a target like this one. And never during such a booming reception. 

But Dakarai was no stranger to nights full of first times.

And tonight, he would kill his first billionaire. And not just any billionaire, either. 

The billionaire Renenetmos Nimr. 

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The night painted Dakarai in the shadows. He had crept carefully down the rocky hills, careful to not dislodge a single pebble. Foliage and palm trees ran around the property. He crouched behind an impressively tall and wide tree, keeping his thin body away from view. 

Cars drove in from the black asphalt and into the gates beyond. Valet waited to take their cars to an immense parking circle and garage across the property. Exquisite European sports cars piled up on the side while limos drove off smoothly into the night after dropping off expensive cargo. 

Dakarai’s golden eyes glinted in the low light. He steadied a breath. 

There were many ways to complete his line of work. He and those similar were artists. They painted with blood, wrote music filled with deathly silence, and wrote poetry out of the glossed-over news stories.

There was no manual, no formulas, and no rules. 

Well, no rules minus one: do not get caught. 

For Dakarai, that meant hiding in the shadows. He struck like a black viper. Once, then twice. Only after the body cooled did he slither away, back into the murk. 

Yet, for others, such a rule meant to get close to the target. Watch their every move. Fit seamlessly into their life like a piece into a puzzle. And only afterwards did they strike. 

He had tried to explain to his clients that he wasn’t quite the one they wanted. He had recommended others he knew; serial and deadly cohorts who he knew personally and had no ties. They did not listen. They did not care for them. 

The client wanted him. Specifically. 

He still didn’t know why. But with the money they offered, he decided he didn’t care. 

Perhaps it wasn’t his usual. He could adapt, like other artists. The median may be different, but music could be just as beautiful as a painting. 

Dakarai had confided in a few for their methods, and asked around for any advice. No one asked questions in response, as doing so would be the ultimate insult. But, like asking any artist how they created, such advice didn’t always seem sensible to him. 

Frustrating, to be sure, but unfortunately expected. 

So Dakarai had reviewed himself and gone back to his own basics. He read the stories told by the suppressors on his handguns. He wore only his sweat pants as he practiced his martial arts over and over again. Each fist sung with a hum of music only he could appreciate. Each kick painted a picture only he could see. 

He sat and meditated in his small and basic apartment. Beyond the physical training, he also trained his mind. Honor may have been left at the door, but Dakarai kept Discipline and Patience sharpened to a point and holstered to his thighs. With his daggers, he could sculpt victory. 

In that calm moment before the storm, Dakarai calmed his mind. His breaths came easily. He dropped his tense shoulders. His hands stopped their sweating. 

With an easy gait, Dakarai darted from behind the palms, twisting over the foliage without making a sound. At the wired gate, Dakarai easily scaled the wrought iron. He flung himself over the pointed top and fell into a roll on the nearly trimmed glass. He continued his roll until he could dart behind one of the many flowering trees which spanned the front yard. 

With a soft sigh, Dakarai peered out. 

Now that he stood closer to the guests, he could determine which mask to wear. He stood quiet and still, nearly invisible on the grounds as he observed. 

Dakarai quickly noticed the trend with the women. All wore short dresses with low-cut tops. All had gone to the same surgeon and wore the same face. With large asses, skinny chicken legs, and overflowing busts, they walked as if they owned the world. 

Online, they did. Here, however, their giggles and chittering harmonized with the clack of tall stilettos. 

The men differed, but not by much. The male models were just as vapid as the women. All boasted plastic and make-up, even if it wasn’t discussed. Their muscles may have been sculpted and their shoulders broad, but they carried no actual strength in either. Just another illusion to keep track of. 

Dakarai touched his own face as he observed the men with jawlines chiseled in the OR. In comparison, his face was longer, while his jawline was smoother. 

No amount of money would pay for him to go underneath the scalpel.

Luckily, some of the plastic men had longer hair, so his brown and black locks would fit in, even if his face wouldn’t. The men walked with the women, arms wrapped tightly around them, their hands either right above the fake asses or fully on display. 

It sickened Dakarai. 

Though he didn’t see a single woman above the age of 25, he saw plenty of older men. They boasted watches that cost more than everything on his entire person. Their puffy eyes gleefully took in the younger women. Some of the said women fawned over the men, hanging onto them as if they were another piece of jewelry. 

Dakarai slowly shook his head. It didn’t matter if those men had slaves in other countries. Or had trafficked and sold children. It didn’t even matter if they were known rapists. As long as those men could throw money and toys at those big, fake asses, what did it matter?

Disgusting. 

Straightening out his suit, Dakarai glanced down one more time at the blood diamond ring. It glittered coldly in the low lighting. He shivered. 

Deftly, Dakarai stepped out from the shadows, and melted into the crowd flowing into the mansion. 

Reaching the mansion was easier than Dakarai had thought. Women, men, and influencers fluttered around him, twittering aimlessly. They ignored him, their glassy eyes meandering right past his plain face and toward the plastics of their own kind. 

The steps leading up into the home had a picture made of mosaic tiles. Reds, blues, purples, and golds were laid out bare before him in a confusing fractal-like lotus pattern. A water feature from the outside walls poured down a set gutter in the steps and led out to the water feature on the grounds behind Dakarai. Sandy pillars held up a curved balcony. 

As Dakarai climbed up the stairs, he noticed the pillars had hieroglyphics scored into the stone. He couldn’t quite read what was written, however. 

The massive front doors were propped open, and a steady stream of people poured both inside and outside. Joining the right-hand side, Dakarai slipped into the throngs of people like a fish would in water. He allowed them to push him forward, into a grand hall. 

The entrance was just as divine as the grounds outside. Above, the ceiling was made of stained glass. The night painted little colors on the marble tile below his glossy shoes. A double staircase straight ahead carved a black pathway toward the upper East and West wings of the home. The stairs were blocked off by large, suited men who hung back from the crowd.

Security. 

As Dakarai drank in his surroundings, he also noted the sight of the elevator near the stairs. 

Well, Dakarai thought to himself, at least the inside is following the rules and regulations of the Americans with Disabilities Act. He couldn’t quite keep the sarcastic smirk from his lips. 

A rounded hallway ahead split the two staircases in half. Above it, on the plain ivory walls, a portrait of Renenetmos hung proudly. Gratuitously painted, it displayed the dark-skinned man in a three-piece black suit. Black on black with a golden tie and handkerchief tucked neatly into the pocket. 

Dakarai paused for a second, staring up at the painting with hardened golden eyes. The image was like the press-images he had found online of one Mr. Nimr. He couldn’t deny that the disgusting man had a pretty face. A sharp, shaven jawline, a straight white smile, and smoldering golden eyes. 

Even more golden than his own. When Dakarai had first noticed, it was hard to look away. Still, he shook himself. 

He himself had golden eyes. Well, perhaps the term golden was a bit too kind. His eyes were like dull faux-gold coins. When the light hit the iris correctly, perhaps they shone a bit more. But it was never something he thought of. Until now. 

It’s a painting, Dakarai told himself. And most pictures online are touched up. No one in real life has eyes that gold. 

Still, Dakarai continued to peer up at the painting. Framing one side of his face, Mr. Nimr’s hair copied the same trendy undercut that was being passed around for the moment. Rather than tying it back into a topknot, he left the black locks loose and hanging past his chin. 

Dakarai slowly shook his head. Such a ridiculous painting. No one looked like that in real life.

A heavy hand interrupted his thoughts as it fell on his shoulder. Automatically tensing, Dakarai’s hands immediately went to his sides, pressing down into his sheathed daggers. 

He met the green-eyed gaze of a friendly smile with a nose too small and straight and a jaw too squared out to be natural. 

“Hey,” the man said. He, like Dakarai, wore a nice suit with a vest. Rather than blacks, his was in shades of tans and whites. “I’m guessing this is your first time here, eh? New influencer?”

Dakarai forced a similar smile. He relaxed his shoulders, mimicking the man’s body posture. He forced a small chuckle. “That obvious, huh?”

The man’s hand moved to pat his much rounder cheek. “Hell yeah. And not just ‘cause you were starin’ up at Renenetmos’ picture.”

Immediately, Dakarai hated the man. His eyes darted to the light-skinned hand that had touched his face, only to recognize the ring he wore. 

It was the same bloody ring currently glittering on his own finger. 

“How ‘bout I show you around, eh? Little lost puppy.” The man slurred his speech only a little. 

Dakarai forced his eyebrow not to raise at the proposition. In reality, he figured ripping out his toenails one nail at a time would be more pleasurable. 

But he had to blend in. Understand the crowd. Fully immerse himself in this new median of art. 

So Dakarai wrapped his hand around the proffered elbow. He continued to match his partner’s body language, keeping his shoulders dropped, knees bent, but head up. He bumped his shoulder against the bicep of his “new friend’s,”

“I would appre — like that,” Dakarai said, keeping his tight faux smile in place.

The man finally introduced himself as Blaise and ran a YouTube channel, an Instagram page, a Twitter page, and many other socials Dakarai couldn’t keep up with. He also couldn’t quite grasp exactly what the man did — something about cars and branding and advertisements. 

During Blaise’s explanation, Dakarai’s thoughts wandered back to the toenail-ripping. 

Despite the slurred speech, Blaise walked confidently and easily maneuvered through the party. Although he still suspected booze, Dakarai figured Blaise had taken some sort of illicit drugs earlier in the night. 

It saddened him, but only a tab. Most likely, there weren’t many thoughts firing through Blaise’s neurons even before the damage from the substances. 

Blaise first took him on a tour of the first story. He avoided certain locked rooms and blocked off hallways. Through the hallway between the stairwell was a grand ballroom, like one ripped straight from a fairytale. Ivory, black, and gold panels held Ancient Egyptian art. Dakarai couldn’t quite place what stories the art told, but he figured it must have. The same animal-headed people kept cropping up panel after panel. 

He recognized two gods. The falcon-headed Ra. The jackal-headed Anubis. Beyond those two characters, Dakarai recognized no one else. 

So it seemed Mr. Nimr had an interest in Ancient Egypt.

Dakarai had, of course, studied his target to the best of his ability before agreeing to this job. But Mr. Nimr held his secrets closer to him than his wealth. He knew little beyond what everyone else in the mansion probably also knew. 

Glancing up, Dakarai noted the black drapes hanging from the domed ceiling. It was painted a dark, dark black. Darker than any black Dakarai had ever seen before. Not even light from the dazzling crystal chandeliers seemed to lay a finger on such shadow. 

Even the polished floors reflected little of the shadow above. The bright gold tiles did not bare a single scratch or speck of dirt, despite the amount of people. 

Across the ballroom, round tables dressed in black tablecloth and dusted with gold held plenty of partygoers. Waiters danced around the guests, serving platter after platter of gourmet foods and refilling empty glasses of spirits. 

Cloying worry struck Dakarai. He prayed Blaise wouldn’t take him to sit and eat. He may manage to stumble his way through a house tour with the man, but a sit-down dinner could ruin his ruse. 

Instead of pulling out a chair, Blaise simply held his arm out, gesturing broadly to the room. “No expense is ever spared at any sort of party he throws,” Blaise said. He paused. “But this is just an appetizer. If you catch my drift.” 

Dakarai tensed as Blaise rubbed one of his braids between his fingers. He fought not to put the man in a chokehold and suplex him. Instead, he nodded and forced himself to lean into the touch. Blaise’ fingers were clammy. 

Blaise pulled him from the ballroom and took him to several other rooms on the first floor to the East and West. These rooms held smaller and older populations of people. They sat in opulent sitting rooms that most likely had not been used since the last grand party Mr. Nimr had hosted. Fireplaces burned with digital flames. Bottles of wine sat empty on end tables as younger women guzzled wine and pawed the older men. Piano and other music played at other times, soft notes of lost memories and wanton youth. Little hors d’oeuvre were served by waiters even this far out from the heart of the party. 

Dakarai cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing but pleasant lies as Blaise introduced him to the women and older men. This time, talks of stocks and corporations hung in the same streets as talks of brand deals and advertisements. Luckily, Blaise didn’t force him to stay long, and they disappeared back into the din. 

Blaise pulled him into a small nook of the mansion. He twined his fingers with Dakarai’s and rubbed that damned blood diamond ring with his fingers. 

“All you’ve had is a taste so far. An appetizer.” He chuckled at himself. “The real party is upstairs.”

“But there’s security--” Dakarai began, but Blaise pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. 

“Trust me, that party will put this one to shame. Follow me.”

Dakarai tried his best to memorize the pathway between all the hallways as Blaise led him back to the grand entrance. Worry still stuck to his insides. Although Blaise had given him a tour, he had shown Dakarai nothing of importance. 

He hadn’t shown Dakarai a single other entrance or exit to the mansion. The windows had satin curtains covering them, and with so many people lounging about, he had no chance to test and see if the windows would open. 

Dakarai’s mind ran a thousand thoughts per second. Windows would have to be his best bet. The mansion stood several stories. As long as this secondary party didn’t go higher than the next floor, jumping from the window shouldn’t be too difficult. 

He didn’t quite know what sort of glass the windows were made of, either. If Dakarai had to guess, and in such a situation it seemed he didn’t have a choice in the matter, he bet it was made of Mr. Nimr’s own special glass. The kind that supposedly could harness energy from the sun and power buildings with. 

The typical technology that came with the CEO of a solar energy company. 

Unfortunately, Dakarai could not remember how durable such glass was. Or if the durability of the glass had ever been mentioned publicly. 

The weight of his guns against his sides briefly calmed Dakarai. Whatever the durability, it would certainly not be bullet proof. Dakarai didn’t need to know much regarding engineering to know that. 

Blaise pulled Dakarai out of his thoughts as he took him not to the stairs, but to the elevator, where one lone member of security stood. This close up, Dakarai allowed himself to scan him. Standard suit. A standard gun and a heavy flashlight hung from his belt. Dakarai assumed each member of the security force also had an extra concealed-carry gun under their shirts, a taser, and an earbud in order to contact one another. 

With their fingers entwined, Blaise flashed the rings at the bouncer. He glanced down at their rings for only a second before stepping to the side, allowing them a silent passage. 

Blaise squeezed Dakarai’s fingers. 

Dakarai, for once, was grateful for the touch, and squeezed back. His hands were becoming as clammy as Blaise’s. 

At least his nerves would help him blend in a little better. 

With a slick smile, Blaise pulled him into the elevator. 

The insides of the elevator did not surprise Dakarai one bit. Walls were lined with mirrors and edged in gold. The mirrors reflected them into infinity, reminding Dakarai of an art piece he had seen long ago. Golden tiles made up the floor beneath his shoes. 

Dakarai clenched his jaw, his heart thrumming in his chest as he watched Blaise reach for the panel to select the floor. 

His heart dropped as the elevator lifted them to the top floor. 

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Dakarai steadied his breath as the smooth elevator doors slid open without a sound. A hallway opened up before both of them. Like all other corridors in the twisting mansion, it had a smooth archway throughout. Dakarai’s glossy dress shoes clicked softly against the almost clinically clean tile. 

Blaise still held his hand, their fingers twined together, and walked so close his shoulder constantly bumped against Dakarai’s. 

Dakarai noted, as the hallway opened up into a larger living space, that the stairs didn’t go to the top floor. Just the elevator. His stomach dropped even further. 

So it seemed there was only one way out and one way in without breaking most of his bones. Dakarai scrambled for a plan, putting the pieces together as if they were shards of glass from a broken object. 

He had silencers on his guns. He would have to kill all eye-witnesses, not just Mr. Nimr. To make sure no one left prematurely, before enacting his plan, he would also need to block off the elevator. 

As Blaise led him through the top floor, Dakarai memorized their pathway back to the elevator. Luckily, the floor plan was easier to navigate with fewer people. 

And less sound. Besides their own footsteps, Dakarai heard nothing else. No one from below, and no one in any adjacent rooms. Beyond their own breaths and footsteps, nothing else rang out. 

So, Mr. Nimr silenced the hidden top floor. Interesting. 

The decor of the top floor seemed to be slightly more lived in, too. Leather cushions, although honeyed to perfection, still had a bit of cat hair on the seat. Throughout the walls of the floor, different shelving and beams jutted out over his head, perfect for feline creatures. 

In every room, a small fountain jutting from the wall poured water into pristine silver-plated bowls. But not small bowls of water for just cats. These were larger. 

Dogs. 

Dogs could be a problem, more so than cats. 

Catching Dakarai’s gaze at the “water features,” Blaise chuckled. “He sure loves his pets, doesn’t he? Made an entire floor for just them and himself. And other things too, of course.” 

Dakarai nodded absentmindedly. “Must have a lot of cats. And dogs.”

Blaise shrugged. “Not as many as you think. Four dogs and just a few cats. He’s just….” Blaise paused. “He simply wants the finest for those who have proven themselves. Just like me. And you, now, of course.” Blaise’s glittering, dark eyes bore into Dakarai, sending a shiver up his spine. 

A shiver he couldn’t quite recognize, but it wasn’t just fear. 

He clamped down harder on his disgust and worked to make sure it didn’t show on his face. 

Blaise tore his gaze away and rolled his shoulders. “Oh, it’s been so long. So long, indeed. You’re going to love this. Up here is where the real party is.”

They stopped in front of a pair of closed double-doors. Dakarai reminded himself that the single elevator was roughly south west from his direction. 

Squaring his shoulders, Blaise pushed forward and swung the doors open. 

Music poured from the crack in the doors, getting louder as the room opened before them. A heavy bass thrummed in Dakarai’s chest. It was purely instrumental with no words —

— and no words were needed for the scene before him. Dakarai’s entire body flushed with heat. He was certain the red flush showed through his tan complexion. 

The room was vast — not as large as the ballroom downstairs — but still massive. Square and squat crystal tables held not just drinks, illicit substances, but also deviancy that Dakarai had never quite seen before. 

A naked woman, barely 18, laid across one of many tables. Her mouth and anus were filled as two men took her violently. Other men surrounded her as well and took turns fucking her before spilling their seed across her body. 

From the walls sprung a couch that encircled half the room. On the edge, a tangle of men took one another. They also took turns with their shared cocaine as well. 

Dakarai blinked, unable to make sense of the deviancy before him. 

At the very least, there were no children. He didn’t think he could have held himself together if there were. As it was, he wished to go back to the elevator and never speak of the sight before him ever again. 

The substances, the wild sex, the music, the thousands of dollars in booze, everything. It painted a dadaism picture of nonsense that would look beautiful in a modern art museum. 

His loathing ran rampant, and so did the heat now coalescing in his core. He couldn’t stop his eyes from meandering across the tangle of men once more. Now it was three on one — the very bottom had each hole filled. He contorted his muscled body in strange ways as one of the other men jacked him off. 

Dakarai shuddered and carefully blanked out his mind. He pictured the ceiling above the ballroom — that stark and impossible black that challenged the very nature of a black hole. A sucking and apathetic void that took and forgot everything it ate. 

He shut his emotions down. Or tried too, anyway. Dakarai focused on his breathing, forcing it to slow down the rate of his heart. He unfocused on the animalistic display in front of him, staring at the bodies moving in tandem as if he were watching creatures at a zoo.

Creatures that would need to be silenced after they witnessed what was about to happen. 

Dakarai stared past the nudity, past the substances, and past the fucking. Hearts pumped blood through each body. They breathed in, powered by oxygen and chemicals and electricity. 

Their brains — whatever brains such decadent creatures had — were numbed by whatever concoction of poison they gleefully shot into their body via needles and snorting. 

Piece by piece, Dakarai took himself apart from the situation, only to draw the strings to tie him back together. Not unlike the woman hanging from the ceiling, tussled up and —

No. 

These creatures before him were not gods. They were of blood and flesh and would rend underneath both bullet and blade. Each was caught up in their own universe of play. 

And the universe had to end. Each one of them. 

As Blaise led him through the crowd, Dakarai noticed that even the naked creatures each still wore the ring. The bloody diamond ring. The one that still glinted on his finger. 

Rather than lead him to the countless sub-groups around the room, Blaise took him to a side-door that slid open into the wall. Carved into the wall was a unique, fractal design of geometric shapes, in-laid with what were certainly real rubies. 

Behind the door, bare marble tiles lay in front of Dakarai as humidity settled in his brown-to-black ombre hair; remnants from a past job.  

“The washrooms. We should clean up first,” Blaise said. He took Dakarai’s hand and pulled him into the room. 

Dakarai quickly shut the sliding door behind him, panic welling in his chest. 

Not once during his entire plan did he think he would need to strip down naked. The depravity of the top 1% overwhelmed even him. 

Without his loose slacks and top, there would be no way for him to hide his weaponry. Perhaps a single gun, concealed, would be easy to explain away. Even if it was illegal as his own was. But the secondary gun? The knives? The little capsule full of cyanide if things really go to shit?

But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that point. It would take much for Dakarai to resort to such measures. He was not a dog. He followed no brand, political party, or other ideology. And he was paid to do what he did. Nothing more, nothing less. And if it weren’t him doing the deed, there would always be someone else willing to get the cash. Everything came from chaos, and it was the natural state of being. 

To be human was to control such chaos. To refine it and use it as a paint or a graphite. Not just contain it, but utilize it as well. Tools were made to be used and purely utilitarian. Art, however? Art transcended all logic and utility. The essence of chaos. 

Dakarai watched as Blaise shed his tanned suit and off-white collared shirt, only to show tattoos all across his body. One arm sleeve was nautical in theme. The other seemed to have no theme. The tattoos extended across his trimmed chest, down his flat stomach, and into his slacks, which hung low on his hips. 

Blaise’s smile turned pouty. He swaggered over to where Dakarai stood frozen in front of the sliding door. He pressed his fingers against Dakarai’s navel and slowly undid the buttons of the vest as his fingers climbed up to Dakarai’s chest. 

“You know, despite your long chin, it’s quite feminine. So is your body.” As he spoke, his fingers trailed even lower. 

Dakarai’s breath caught in his throat, although whether it was from the insult or Blaise’s gentle hands, he didn’t know. Blaise’s fingers dusted Dakarai’s chest, and his warmth sunk into Dakarai’s flesh. 

Dakarai’s chest tightened. His stomach sloshed with nausea. 

Poor Blaise. Poor, poor, plastic and handsome Blaise. 

Perhaps someone else a little more… femme fatale. Or, perhaps, masc fatale? Could lean into such warmth and touch. Perhaps a different person could stomach pressing their lips against Blaise’s. Not just their lips, but their body too.

But Dakarai was no femme fatale. Not even a masc fatale. 

So, rather than lean into Blaise and allow him to whisper sweet nothings into his ear, Dakarai grabbed his wrist in his hand. In one fluid motion, Dakarai bent it backwards, snapping it. 

Blaise didn’t have time to cry out. Dakarai’s other hand darted out. He squeezed Blaise’s throat, cutting off his vocals. 

Although Blaise had more muscle mass than him and was taller, Dakarai was a lot more sober. He swept Blaise’s legs out from under him with a pointed kick, used the momentum to swing Blaise around, and bring him to the floor with a pivot of his hips and shoulders. 

Straddling the man, Dakarai pressed his thumbs against Blaise’s windpipe. 

Shock shattered into panic as Blaise’s heart and lungs fought for air. He tried to kick out his legs. His hands flew up to his throat. 

Blaise couldn’t quite pry Dakarai’s fingers off him. His pasty face quickly turned red before purple, his eyes bulging from his skull, rolling wildly. 

Using all his weight, Dakarai leaned further into the chokehold, allowing the natural forces of gravity to do his work for him. 

Although usually not a fan of such… hands on methods, Dakarai figured if finger painting could classify as modern art nowadays, so could his own savage and basic technique. 

It didn’t take long for Blaise’s squirms to slow down. His kicks faded away as well. Those bulging eyes, which stared at Dakarai in shock, confusion, and outrage, lost that familiar glimmer of life. 

Dakarai released his hands. Blaise did not move. 

With no blood to worry about, Dakarai took his time. He fully stripped Blaise of all his clothes, grateful he didn’t have a bowel movement in his last moments as others did. To the East, behind a foggy mirror which spanned the entire wall, hid a closet. Dakarai hung his clothes up neatly on one rack inside, right next to a glittering red dress. 

Although stronger than he seemed, Dakarai still struggled underneath the dead weight as he dragged Blaise’s body over to a shower. 

Most of the showers were open, a couple had stalls built around them. Water droplets and steam clung to the glass of the shower stalls as it did the mirror. 

Inside the shower, the walls were plated with a silver and black mosaic. Quite different from the rest of the mansion. In fact, Dakarai could not see a single speck of gold inside the washrooms. Tucking the thought away, he sat Blaise down on the bench inside, propping him up against the wall. He yanked the hot water knob until it could go no further. 

A calescent stream of water shot out of the shower head. A torrent of water curled down the drain as steam immediately rose from the tile, filling the glass further with steam.

Dakarai allowed a brief smile to twitch at the corner of his lips. It would at least buy him a little time, but not much. And not nearly enough. 

Stepping out of the shower, Dakarai sighed internally. He glanced at the door. No one else entered. He doubted anyone would soon. 

No playing the waiting game for him today. It was a day of action. 

Ignoring himself in the mirror, Dakarai neatly stripped himself of his clothes. He gripped his daggers tightly after he slipped the sheaths from his thighs. He gave them a squeeze before tucking them inside the pant legs of his slacks. His guns followed suit. There was no good way to hide his weapons, unfortunately. All he could do was hope to get back to them before anyone else noticed their presence.

Dakarai hung his clothes and weapons beside Blaise’s suit.

Heat filled his cheeks as he stood in front of the exit. Despite the steam filling the washroom, a chill permeated Dakarai; all the way to the bone. He fought not to cross his arms over his chest. 

He had never stood naked in front of anyone. Not as a man, at least. The thought of standing in front of so many people at once had never crossed his mind in his entire life. 

Dakarai steadied his breathing. He slowly dropped his arms back to his sides. 

Blaise’s words echoed in his mind. Long chin and feminine. 

Well, so what? He was no model. He’d rather take his cyanide pill, which remained tucked away on the inside of his cheek. One wrong swallow, and that would be it for him, though he had no worries of such a thing happening. 

Forcing his hands to stop trembling so much, Dakarai slid the door open and exited back into the room. 

Not much had changed. People were still fucking. People were still smoking. People were still snorting. The who and what made no difference to him. Only one person mattered in this room. 

Dakarai slipped to the side of the room. Luckily, as late as he was to the real party, everyone else was too lost in their own worlds to notice him. 

And besides, he had trained himself to be unnoticeable. Plain with a simple and unremarkable face and features. Not hideous. Not handsome either. Simply a ghost of a man which walked between the words and worlds of strangers. 

Scanning the room, it didn’t take long for Dakarai to spot one Mr. Renenetmos Nimr. 

Through the throngs of people in the very back of the room was a nook. A crimson red curtain hung in front of the small room, blocking direct sight. An umber hand laden with golden rings had parted that curtain, and beneath it a giggling and red-faced blonde woman slunk out. Her large, too perky tits gleamed with semen. She wobbled on her feet as she whipped around and kissed the man which followed behind her. 

Dakarai grit his jaw so hard, he thought he would crack his teeth. 

There was no way the man in the painting was real. Yet, across an entire room, he stood before Dakarai as a god among men. 

The eyes that had stared down at him in the painting were not exaggerated at all. In fact, Dakarai could not think of a single golden paint that could rival the brilliance of Renenetmos’ eyes. His black eyeliner only exaggerated the golden glow of his eyes further-- an Eye of Ra which stretched down his left cheek. 

Mr. Nimr, unlike the other heathens in the room, was still clothed. A silky black robe was draped over his shoulders, the edges trimmed with gold. Plain and heavy-looking golden necklaces hung down his bare chest, right between his sculpted pectorals. A black collar circled tight around his throat. A yellow topaz, cut in the same symbol as the alchemical sign for fire, was set in the center. Similar triangular earrings hung from both his ears. 

Mr. Nimr returned the kiss with vigor, curling his long, black, claw-like nails into her already tangled hair. In response, the woman reached up to tug at the gold chain which connected his pierced nipples. 

Dakarai shuddered at the mere thought. But rather than wince in pain, Mr. Nimr’s grin only grew. He slapped the blonde’s ass before giving her a playful shove into the arms of another man. 

Although clearly disappointed, the woman quickly melted into another boiling pot of lust. 

Lowering his eyes so as to not catch Mr. Nimr’s gaze, Dakarai used his peripherals to watch as Mr. Nimr captured another bombshell; this time a brunette with long legs and an ass that didn’t quite match her chicken-thin thighs. Grabbing the centaur-like rear end of the woman, Mr. Nimr dragged her into his private room. The crimson curtain swished back into place. 

Dakarai took several more seconds to scope out the room. It seemed no one paid him too much heed at all. No eyes wandered in his direction. No one pulled him toward any of the orgies currently taking place. Not even a glass of bitter champagne was offered. 

Another small grin twitched at the edge of his lips. Perfect. 

He had to take care of the elevator. He saw no windows, so it was the only way in or out. 

And he had to take care of Mr. Nimr first. Get close to that red room and try to catch the billionaire’s eye. If he was as feminine as Blaise had said, perhaps such an insult could be used to his advantage.  

After he took care of Mr. Nimr, he would then need to remove the witnesses from his next grand piece. After all, unless done with purpose, smudges were simply smudges. 

Returning to the washroom, Dakarai picked up the first of his many tools; Patience. 

He could not strike too early. If the paint is not dry, another layer will only ruin his piece. 

But he also could not wait too long either. 

Long chin and feminine. 

Dakarai grit his teeth. Returning to the closet, he scrounged for a lost hair-tie. Picking out a rubber band from the pocket of a suit, he returned to the wall-length mirror.

Long chin and feminine. 

Gathering his long hair, which nearly trailed down to his hips, Dakarai brought it up in a high ponytail. His braids still framed his cheeks. 

He nuzzled his dagger through the base of the ponytail and hid its blade behind his curtain of hair. 

Dakarai ducked out of the washroom. He slunk against the back walls, slipping between addiction and lust to reach the hallway Blaise had led him through. 

It didn’t take long before Dakarai reached the elevator. The pathway only had a few turns to it. He kept his eyes peeled for the sight of any dogs or cats, but saw none. 

An unfortunate, unknown piece. He hoped leaving such a gap would not create smudges. 

The elevator was open when Dakarai reached it, still at the top of the building. Stepping into the small room, he peered at the control panel. Only two floors were available; the ground floor and the top floor. 

Unfortunately, the elevator would not be stopped at either of those floors. Dakarai pressed the button labeled G. He pulled the dagger out of his hair. 

But as it descended, Dakarai twirled his dagger and stabbed it into the control panel, right into the emergency stop. 

The elevator ground to a silent stop; hung in limbo between Hell below and a place much worse above. 

Above, the ceiling of the elevator was sculpted into fractal crystals that reflected not just his face, but the plush red carpet under his bare feet. Using the hand-rail inside the elevator, Dakarai balanced gingerly against the wall.  

Sweat stains from his body ruined the illusion the surrounding mirrors gave, but he paid it no mind for now. Cleaning all remnants of himself wouldn’t take long or be difficult. Using his dagger, he dragged it across the ceiling. Although it appeared to be shaped, such a feature was merely an illusion. Finding the edge of a panel against the flat ceiling, Dakarai peeled it forwards and dropped it onto the plush carpet below. He tossed the dagger on top of the elevator before hauling his naked body up. 

Dakarai ran his fingers through his ponytail, steadying both himself and his nerves. The air inside the shaft of the elevator stank with a stench similar to gasoline. He wrinkled his nose. 

Naked. On top of a private elevator in the middle of a mansion. All the while as he attempted to… create art of a man who was the heart of a drug-fueled orgy above. He shook his head. 

He had been in strange situations before, but this one was certainly the strangest. 

The elevator shaft seemed to be normal, although Dakarai had only been in two before. A large cable held the elevator below his feet. Although glancing around, Dakarai noticed something wrong.

There was no maintenance ladder. Smooth walls greeted him on all sides. 

He growled. Is that even legal? Dakarai thought to himself. He snorted in amusement afterwards. Legal. As if any billionaire cared about such trite details. Dakarai had to admit, however, he did not care for the concept much either. 

Disgusting. 

Dakarai tightened his core muscles. With the strength of both his arms and thighs, he slowly shimmied up the metal cable of the elevator. The shaft was dark; only a thin beam of light from the doors above pierced the gloom. 

The cable was slick with grease and left a slime on Dakarai’s hands and inner thighs. With no clothes to wipe away the sensation, he was left with dirty hands, legs, and nails. 

Luckily there’s a washroom, Dakarai thought. 

Reaching the top, he clenched his thighs tight around the metal cable, holding himself in place with his trained core and legs. A short metal ledge stuck out from the wall. A thin beam of light cut it in half. 

Dakarai eyed it warily. He needed to pry open the doors, but he didn’t quite trust the metal to hold his weight. 

Luckily for him, the cable he had climbed up on was close to the wall. He extended one of his lean, tanned legs and pressed some weight against the metal. It didn’t bend or break. 

Still, he would need to be quick. He launched himself from the cable toward the closed doors, piercing his dagger in the lightened slot. 

Elevator doors were meant to be pried open. A safety feature if there ever was one. The metal beneath his bare feet groaned as Dakarai pried the doors open and rolled back onto the top floor. 

Just in time. The metal platform snapped, and a low thud reverberated through the elevator shaft. 

Now that light flooded the once dark shaft, he could clearly see the broken metal on the roof of the elevator several yards down.

The fall wouldn’t be enough to kill anyone. But it was far enough that it would be hell to get out unless they were not just as well-trained as him, but as sober as him, too. Dakarai doubted both possibilities. Glancing down at himself, Dakarai wrinkled his nose at the sight of black grease smeared across his hands, torso, and thighs. 

But with the elevator now out of service, even such grime couldn’t hide his slick smile. 

Dakarai returned to the orgy and hurried back into the washrooms. Although no one saw him slip inside, he froze as he entered. 

A woman was opening the shower stall full of water and steam. “Blaise? Are you — Blaise!” 

Dakarai darted across the washroom before she could release her scream. He hooked his elbow around her throat. 

She squirmed in his grasp, her hands yet again clawing at his arm rather than try to elbow his torso. The woman tried to scream, but Dakarai only squeezed her windpipe harder in response. 

Like Blaise, it didn’t take too long for her to still in his arms. She slumped against his torso, limp as a dead fish. Dakarai kept the pressure, however, making sure she would not rise again before positioning her in the steamy shower with Blaise. 

No blood. No worries. 

Dakarai dropped her on top of Blaise. If someone else wandered in before their… appointed time, perhaps they would think the two were having shower sex. 

Dakarai stood beneath the torrent of still-hot water, allowing it to run the grime off him for several moments. Grabbing a bottle of soap, he quickly scrubbed at the grease spots, his underarms, and around his groin area. 

He had been clean when starting this job, but he didn’t want to run any risks of stinking. He had to be pristine if he were to get inside Mr. Nimr’s private room. 

Dakarai traded Patience for Discipline. Whereas Patience had a flattened, straight blade that tapered to a point, Discipline was a stiletto. Thinner, sharper, and smaller, it pierced flesh with ease and could easily slip between ribs. Dakarai tucked it into his ponytail, hiding it. Unlike Patience, Discipline was so thin, it could pass as a hairpin. 

It was time. 

Rather than float against the walls as he did, Dakarai instead slowly integrated into the orgy at play. He did not kiss anyone, nor did he allow anyone to press their aroused genitals against his own. Instead, he slunk through the partygoers as he would through shadow. He utilized taps, catcalls, and bumps with his shoulders to direct the witnesses away from himself and towards other people. 

It took time. Mr. Nimr disposed of his brunette and this time grabbed a muscular man to take behind his curtains. 

Dakarai’s insides burned, but not from passion. That familiar taste of hatred flowed in his mouth, making him salivate. Through the stench of alcohol, smoke, and sex, he could already catch that sweet tang of iron. 

He’d need to be careful once the blood ran. It would be no good if he left clear footprints in red. 

Adrenaline pumped through him. Dakarai’s fingers twitched, itching for the entire game to end. As he took another glance around the room, he gave a small shake of his head. Not for the future waste of human life, however. Dakarai was quite certain that the world would pay no heed if any of the lives in the room were lost. 

No, Dakarai simply wondered if he would get a bonus for being burdened with so much collateral damage. With how much his employers were already paying him, certainly they could afford it. 

Even if they couldn’t, however, Dakarai still imagined the vacation he could take. Right to the Bahamas, certainly. He’d not have to leave for quite a while. Plus, lying low in a different country as the authorities tried to figure out who… disposed of such a young entrepreneur in such a gruesome way sounded like a good idea to Dakarai. 

True, they had forensics and DNA on their sides. This job was a risky one. Only skill exceeding perfection could pull such a job off. But Dakarai suspected his employers had a power greater than modern forensic science. And he was not wet-nosed in the field either. 

He was many things. An artist. A black-belt. Gunslinger. Snob. Feminine too, apparently. But more than any of those things, a jack of many, many different trades. 

The muscular man ducked out from behind the curtain. He was flaccid, but still dripping semen. His entire body flushed a deep scarlet, and he kept licking his lips. Visceral disgust shot through Dakarai at the sight. 

Mr. Nimr appeared from behind his curtains yet again, also licking his lips. A black wrap that matched his robe hung low on his hips. 

This close to the man and the private room, Dakarai could sense the heat emitting from both. The stench of wild sex only grew stronger as well, dancing with a muskier scent. A natural scent. 

Mr. Nimr. 

His golden eyes fell on Dakarai and immediately darkened. 

Dakarai caught the gaze and gulped. 

This close to the billionaire, Dakarai couldn’t help but note how tall he was. Mr. Nimr did not just tower over six feet, but was sculpted and built. His smooth umber skin stretched over taunt tendons and thick cords of muscle. His pectorals were shaped. If he dehydrated himself a little more, Dakarai was certain Mr. Nimr would have had abs instead of the smooth and tight core he currently had. His waistline tapered in before tapering back out into muscled legs. 

Dakarai’s face flushed slightly. He stamped down on the sudden heat swirling low in his core, but he couldn’t hide the slight stiffening of his cock. 

Mr. Nimr grinned. His full and plump lips pulled back as he displayed sharpened incisors. This close to the man, Dakarai also noted his extremely pointed ears. 

Clearly into body modification, Dakarai thought. Well, it won’t matter either way soon enough. 

Rather than grab him, Mr. Nimr held out his hand to him. Dakarai slipped his right hand into that proffered palm. Most people were right-handed. Being right-handed was less noticeable. Although originally right-handed, ambidexterity was yet another carefully crafted tool Dakarai carried with himself daily. 

Mr. Nimr pulled him close, crushing Dakarai’s bare front against his own as he pulled him into his private world.

The inside of the private room was dark. Orange lighting from candles cast odd, twisting shadows along the mosaic walls, which held more hieroglyphics. 

A circular and cushioned couch was pressed against the back wall. Two small end tables held an assortment of items. 

Alcohol. Cocaine. More lube than Dakarai even knew existed. And a copious amount of sex toys separated into different bowls. 

Anal plugs and beads. Cock rings. Collars and leashes. And other toys and tools Dakarai could not identify even if he tried. 

A large hand fisted near the base of Dakarai’s long ponytail, and before Dakarai knew it, a pair of lips crushed down upon his, stealing his breath away. He didn’t fight the kiss, but neither did he kiss back as Mr. Nimr took him to the cushions. He dragged Dakarai onto his lap.

Dakarai’s eyes flew open at the sensation of something large and throbbing pressing beneath him, against his rear. He met Mr. Nimr’s golden gaze. 

The billionaire had not closed his eyes at all during the kiss. He stared intently at Dakarai. 

The only emotion Dakarai recognized was that of lust. Every instinct inside Dakarai told him to run. Everywhere the billionaire touched and perceived him tainted him. The filth didn’t just stay on his skin, however. Each kiss, brush of his clothed cock, and flutter of his eyelashes only dirtied Dakarai’s insides further.

It would take more than a shower to clean him now. He’d have to hang his organs out to dry on a rack. 

Dakarai hooked an arm around Mr. Nimr’s neck, as if to pull him in closer. The billionaire went to grab Dakarai’s left wrist, but Dakarai twisted it out of the way. 

Before Mr. Nimr could pull back, Dakarai pulled his stiletto blade from his hair. He drove the blade into Mr. Nimr’s pectoral. 

The thin stiletto blade, created for stabbing, slipped between Mr. Nimr’s ribs with ease. It pierced his heart, severing the ventricles and atria. 

Dakarai launched himself out of Mr. Nimr’s lap. The billionaire blinked, his eyebrows raised in a mild surprise. He glanced down at his chest, where dark blood seeped out. He pressed a hand against the wound. 

Black blood stood stark against his light-colored palm. Dakarai furrowed his brows. Black blood?

Maybe a medical condition? He’d never seen such a sight before. 

However, before Dakarai could even ask, Mr. Nimr slumped down and over, his eyes fluttering closed as he collapsed. Dakarai waited for several seconds. When Mr. Nimr didn’t move; he crept forwards. He kicked the blood-stained hand with his toes. 

No movement.

He pressed two fingers against the billionaire’s pulse-point in his neck.

Nothing. 

This time, a proper smile spread across Dakarai’s face. He flashed his teeth in triumph, pride rushing through him.

A success. Of course. He carried no doubts. 

Wiping the blood on his blade off on Mr. Nimr’s fallen robe, Dakarai left the private room. 

Sometimes, artistry took a long time. Days. Weeks. Sometimes he simply couldn’t quite get what he wanted right.

And other times, his art seemed to create him more than he created it. It guided him to where he needed to be. Just as it did now. 

But his grand piece wasn’t completed. Not yet. There were many details to incorporate, after all. 

Before Dakarai could slip into the washrooms, a redheaded woman burst through the sliding doors. Her eyes were wide and dilated with both fear and illicit substances. 

“Blaise and Jenni are DEAD!” she wailed. 

Not everyone stopped. Many were caught in the throes of drug-fueled lust. But the ones closest to him and the woman paused. 

“You sure?” Another woman asked, approaching her. She reached out and grabbed the redhead’s large, rounded breasts. Her fingers rubbed against her nipples, eliciting a moan. 

“Yes, yes!” the redhead panted. “I called their names, and they didn’t move. They weren’t moving at all!”

“You’re just having a bad trip, babe. Or maybe they are,” the woman said. 

Dakarai ducked into the washrooms before he could listen for the redhead’s answer. He had little time left. 

He yanked his slacks and button-down shirt from the closet and didn’t bother to tuck his shirt in. Lastly, he slipped on his shoes and traded both Patience and Discipline away for his twin handguns. Dakarai rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck.

Showtime. 

He slid the door open. The redhead was still trying to talk to the other woman, who struggled to pay attention to what she was saying. However, before either could get another word out, Dakarai leveled his guns at both of them.

With silencers on both the handguns, the soft popping sound hardly cracked the loud noise in the room. One hollow-tipped bullet pierced the back of the redhead’s skull. The second bullet tore its way through the other woman’s throat, severing the carotid artery. 

With this many people present in the room, a shotgun or something with a spray would have been a bit more useful to Dakarai. But alas, as always, he was stuck with the hard way. 

As soon as the two women went down, Dakarai began aiming and firing at as many bodies as possible. His eagle-sharp sight found weak spots in the heads and necks of his prey. It took several more hollow-tipped bullets before people began noticing their sex partners dropping. 

Then, as expected, the screaming and pandemonium set in. Dakarai thought about how he should have brought ear plugs. The terrified caterwauling reverberated in his skull and bounced off the soundproof walls. 

Many of his fellow artists were musicians. He preferred working with silence. 

As Dakarai expected, no one fought back. Too hopped up on illicit substances. Too drunk. Too terrified. And much too naked. 

No one else had any decent weapons besides fists. And with no skills behind any such weapons, even man’s first and greatest tool was useless. 

The room cleared rather quickly. Fresh and warm bodies laid in growing pools of blood, which freely spread across the tile. Bare footprints in the blood led all around the room, but all eventually headed down the hallway.

With his guns still in hand, Dakarai relaxed his shoulders and meandered down the hallway. He followed those footprints to the elevator. 

Panic brought savagery. Those who were having sex just moments before now screamed at one another, pushing each other down the elevator shaft. The crunch of bones pierced the screams. 

The last remaining group of survivors only noticed Dakarai when he shot the loudest man of the bunch in the eye. A bullet tore through the soft organ and into his skull, killing him instantly. 

Dakarai’s grin grew wider. He spun his guns, burying hollow-point bullets into the others before they tried to jump down the elevator shaft in mad desperation. 

Just like the carnival that his mom would take him to when he was a kid. There was a game he always played at one of the stand; darts. A mere five dollars would give three darts to play. If you got all three on the bullseye in a row, you won the large prize. 

He no longer had the massive stuffed taco he had won from that game. It was lost, like many of his other possessions. But the memory he carried was all he needed anyway. 

Stepping to the edge of the elevator shaft, Dakarai hardly had to aim. The fall from the edge rendered elevator roof. Those who fell wrong — on their heads — lay broken. The rest nursed broken bones, struggling to get up and reach the ruined panel of the elevator.

Fools. But Dakarai could not blame them. They were simple creatures and worked by pure instinct. After reloading, he finished every animal off quickly. 

He was not a cruel man, after all. 

The silence that rang out reverberated louder in his ears than the screaming. Dakarai popped his neck and closed his eyes, steadying his breathing.

It was done. The job was complete. 

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Spinning around on his heel, Dakarai pulled the trigger before even registering who was behind him.

Mr. Nimr grinned as the bullet buried itself into his abdomen, tearing through his lung. His hands were still raised, however, and he continued his clapping. 

He raised a single eyebrow as he glanced down at his bare chest. “Quite a show. And quite an eye for aim as well,” he purred.

Purred. Dakarai had never heard a human being purring. 

In a single moment, Dakarai went from the predator to the prey. His hands trembled, but he fired again, finishing his round in Mr. Nimr’s abdomen and chest. 

The billionaire coughed, and that strange black blood bubbled at his lips. He sank to his knees as more blood seeped from his wounds. All black. 

Dakarai’s hands shook harder as he struggled to reload his guns yet again. 

The glossy look in Mr. Nimr’s faded yellow eyes did not last long. He groaned before rising yet again. The small holes in his flesh closed up; sinewy muscle and connective tissue repairing the outer wound as fresh flesh hid any hint of a scar. 

Dakarai’s stomach rolled. He knew he pierced both lungs. Most likely the stomach and intestines too with his wild shots. He could only imagine what sort of healing his innards were up to. 

“What the fuck are you?” Dakarai gasped. As Mr. Nimr stepped forward, he tried to step back, only for his heels to teeter on the edge of the elevator shaft. 

Mr. Nimr’s golden eyes sparked, and he flashed his fangs again. “You haven’t figured it out already? I’m your god.”

“God doesn’t exist,” Dakarai spat. He spent another round of bullets in Mr. Nimr’s body. As the man died for a third time, Dakarai sheathed the guns, and ran. 

He had figured earlier that he would have found a hidden way to escape. After all, who would only leave one obvious way of exit in their mansion? And an elevator, no less? What if there was a fire?

So, there had to be a set of stairs somewhere. Even if it only led to the floor directly below. 

As he ran, Dakarai reloaded his guns yet again. He turned down twisted hallways and banged on locked doors. 

Then the clapping started. Again. It bounced off the walls and settled in the pit of his stomach. Dread crept up Dakarai like vines. 

Clap. Clap. Clap. 

Anger clawed its way up Dakarai’s throat. He hissed to himself. He couldn’t get a hold of his thoughts and couldn’t comprehend what the hell was going on, either. In his fit of anger, Dakarai grabbed paintings off the wall and flung them to the floor, breaking the frames. 

He tried to veer off to the right. He touched the walls, flung the paintings. A secret staircase. There had to be one somewhere. 

Clap. Clap. Clap. 

Dakarai froze for a second, his thoughts still tumbling forwards. Of course. He changed direction and instead ran back into the main room.

The heavy scent of iron and death hung in the air like perfume. Bodies, still warm and fresh and pliable, littered the room like litter. 

Running forward toward the red curtains, Dakarai hit a patch of blood wrong. He slipped and fell on a body.

Clap. Clap. Clap. 

It took a few seconds too long for Dakarai to scramble to his feet. His no longer shiny dress shoes with smooth soles kept slipping as he tried to stand. 

He flung his way forward, ripping the curtain back.

A sharp whistle cleaved the steadying clapping.

Dakarai kicked the bowls of sex toys to the side, scattering them across the floor. He ripped up the cushions and toppled the end tables.

Nothing.

He slammed his hands against the walls, which were smooth with a beautiful black trimming. He pushed against the plaster hard, trying to see if a small area of the wall would give in.

Nothing.

Dakarai froze yet again at the sound of distinctive growling.

The dogs. It was always the damn dogs. 

He rolled to the side as a large, black doberman tried to get ahold of his leg. The beast had its pointed ears flat against its head and its teeth bared. Glistening drool dripped from its maw. 

It didn’t seem to care about the sticky blood covering its paws.

Dakarai tried to shoot, but his hands were shaking too hard. He couldn’t control his own panic any longer, and the bullet went wide.

The dog lunged. Dakarai did not dodge in time. 

The immense beast bowled his thin frame over with ease. Its teeth dug into his forearm, forcing him to drop one of his weapons.

Dakarai pressed the barrel of his other gun against the beast’s head. But before the shot could ring out, another set of teeth grabbed his other arm.

Now both guns had clattered to the floor, along with the sex toys. A sickening display. 

Dakarai bit his tongue. Blood flooded into his mouth as he forced himself to stay silent. The dogs pressed down on him with their enormous paws, forcing him onto the ground, and held him there.

Two more dogs ran into the room. All four were doberman, although all four had different coat colors. 

Black and tan. Brown. Silver. And one jet black. The two new dogs-- jet black and brown-- circled him while snarling.

“Such excellent entertainment for me tonight!” Mr. Nimr said, his unscarred chest shaking with laughter. “I will admit, I am surprised. It is hard to surprise me. Wonderful.”

Mr. Nimr crouched down and grabbed Dakarai’s face. His long, black claws dug into his flesh, drawing pinpricks of blood near his ears. 

The inhuman billionaire continued to stare at him, his golden eyes wide and maniacal. “So, who are you?”

Dakarai could not quite keep his grin off his face. Mr. Nimr would never know.

Before he could swallow his cyanide capsule, tucked away in his mouth, Mr. Nimr claimed his lips with a disgusting and slimy kiss. His tongue — much too long and much too versatile — broke through his teeth. It somehow scooped up the pill.

Mr. Nimr flashed the capsule at him on his tapered tongue before taking it and crushing it between his thumb and forefinger. Cyanide dust joined the cocaine spilled onto the floor. 

Dakarai could not fight the grimace off his lips. 

“Now that the cat, so to speak, no longer has your tongue, I shall repeat myself. Who are you?”

Dakarai closed his eyes in response, not uttering a word. 

Mr. Nimr growled. Growled. Like an animal himself. He snapped his fingers.

The dog that had his right arm in its maw clamped down harder. Dirty fangs dug deep into Dakarai’s smooth and tan flesh. 

Dakarai clenched his jaw, biting down on the pain. Even as his blood ran into the beast’s jaw, he refused to utter a single noise.

Not even a whimper. Never a whimper. 

As the dogs tore into him. Dakarai forced his pained and heavy breaths to slow. He counted each inhalation and exhalation. In and out. 

The mind and body were intertwined. To him, like the double-helix structure of DNA. A connected and pronged staircase that twirled through cells which made tissue. Tissue that made structure. Structure that made organs. 

His nerves sang chemical potentials filled with agony. His brain was awash in a fear reaction. So Dakarai instead focused on shutting it all down. He snapped the prongs connecting his mind to the rest of his brain and body. He fought with each gate, allowing the pain to run rampant through him, shutting each with a shuddering clang. 

The pain dulled. His body could only take so much. Dakarai plunged himself into that ocean of shock. The frigid waters cooled his torn muscles and veins. 

Distantly, he heard another inhuman and quite un-doglike growl. 

Mr. Nimr grabbed his face again. “Who sent you?” He flashed his fangs at him.

Dakarai responded with a blank stare. He was not there, beneath dogs and being interrogated. He was far, far away. On a sandy beach. The gentle sun warmed his bare back. The high tide just rolled in, caressing the tops of his feet in salty kisses. 

“Fine.” Mr. Nimr snarled. “You don’t feel like engaging in pleasant conversation now? Perhaps a small nap is in order.” He dropped Dakarai’s head as if it were a piece of trash. 

His dress shoes clacked against the tile, despite the amount of blood still left. He continued to talk to himself under his breath. Too quiet for Dakarai to hear. 

The dogs continued to bear down on his back. Dakarai told himself he was laying back into sand within the reach of the tide now. He couldn’t tell how long it took for Mr. Nimr to return. Perhaps only a handful of minutes. But perhaps hours.

Dakarai was busy nursing a margarita. 

Claws returned to clamp down on his face. 

“Goodnight, assassin.”

Mr. Nimr shoved a white cloth against Dakarai’s mouth and nostrils. The awful and overwhelming scent of chloroform tore through his time at the beach. 

His margarita spilled into a salty ocean, which evaporated. The sun fell from the sky, crashing behind the desert the ocean left behind. 

Night, and with it silence, descended.