Another shovel-full of dirt hits the pile.
The hole is finally taking shape. Not pretty, not deep enough for Guild standards, but I’m sweaty, my tiny shovel is an insult to Earth-moving tools everywhere, and he isn’t in a position to file a complaint.
“Good enough,” I say, brushing the hair out of my face with the back of my wrist.
I jab the shovel into the earth one last time and lean on it, breathing hard under the moon’s bright, nosy glare. My heartbeat is steady. My muscles ache in the good way. For a fleetingsecond, it actually feels peaceful.
Me, a grave, and a mark that better not be more trouble than he’s worth.
I climb out of the grave and straighten, brushing dirt from my hands until my palms sting. The night air is cooler up here, untouched by sweat and exertion, and for a moment I just breathe it in before circling the body.
Time to make it official.
I pull out my phone, tap the Guild’s secure app, and the kill-log interface opens with its usual cold efficiency. I crouch, grab his wrist, and press his thumb to the screen. The scanner flashes once, blinks red, and throws an error.
Of course.
I try again, angling his thumb differently, wiping away the smear of blood with the edge of my sleeve. Another red flash. No signature. No print. Nothing.
A low groan escapes me. “You havegotto be kidding.”
I lift both his hands and finally see the problem: shredded palms, skin torn open from when I hurled him through the third-floor window of that empty office building. Clean kill. Minimal noise. No witnesses, no security, no alarms.
Convenient then.
Infuriating now.
“Couldn’t have just landed on your back, huh?” I mutter. Fine. If the thumbprint’s useless, there’s always the backup.
I tilt his head, pull his eyelid open, and bring my phone close. The retinal scanner hums softly. One beat, two—then the app flashes bright green.
Kill confirmed.
Fundstransferred.
Vacation back on track.
“About damn time.”
I stand and nudge him lightly with the toe of my boot. The body rolls into the grave, landing on its back with a soft thud. Moonlight hits his face just right, and that crooked little smirk he died wearing seems even more obnoxious now. It’ll probably still be there when he starts to rot.
“Enjoy your new home,” I tell him, voice low. “No neighbors. No noise complaints. Perfect retirement plan.”
I kneel at the edge of the hole, mini-shovel dangling from one hand while I rest my forearms on my knees. My breath eases. My pulse slows. The night settles again, empty and wide, the wind carrying only distant train noise and the faint hum of insects. No one is going to wander out here. No one is going to find him.
The job is done.
The promise of real rest is finally within reach.
I take one last look at him and sigh. “Goodbye, unlucky bastard. And I swear—no more kills. At least not until my vacation is over.”
With the solemnity of someone who doesn’t have much faith in that statement, I scoop the first shovel-full of dirt and toss it onto his chest.
The first layer of dirt settles over him, soft as dust. The night is still again, save for the faint hum of a train far in the distance. For a moment, it almost feels peaceful.
Almost.
As much peace as a woman can get while standing over a half-dug grave with a dead man staring up at her.
