They sky is a black void.
I belong to the group that is called "human beings". Most of the individuals that fall under this group are just horrible. Polluters, liars, equivocators, and evildoers. There are also those uninteresting, disgusting humans. Those who are unmotivated, uninspired, permanently unhappy, and those who keep striving for something that is absolutely hopeless and absolutely impossible. Endless categories, I'd say. Endless categories.
Now, which category would I fall into? None. Because I don't put any worth on myself. That's the end of that topic.
To be frank and not waste any of my ink: there are too many human beings on Earth.
Some people who think that they are intelligent say that murder is wrong. Some people also think, surprisingly, that I am a murderer. They think I am a serial killer. They think I am a psychopath, or a sociopath. But I am not.
I do good deeds in favor of Planet Earth. I do good deeds for the interests of my own. And I do good deeds for the interests of the Fang.
He continued to dash from tree to tree, hidden under the safety of the black, starless sky. He had no shadow. It was almost as if his shadow co-existed with the shadows of all other things. He blended in with the black reflections of concrete things, moving swiftly and without much sound towards his target.
Yes, his target.
An old man, who owned seven of eleven major profit corporations in the entire country. He was old, but he was a strong man. He held a weathered briefcase in one hand, and his other thrust into the pocket of his jeans. If watched from afar, or from above, one would still question what the President of Siarus was doing on the outskirts of a small town.
But perhaps no one will ever know.
Secrets are well hidden,
he thought, and I think I will choose to keep this one hidden. I will not know now, but I will know soon. Better to know later and make haste than to know now and make waste.
Hm. That's a good line.
He stopped momentarily, just about a hundred meters behind the President, and flipped open his little notebook, slowly etching in the words precisely as he had just wisely mentioned.
He placed it back into the inside pocket of his cloak as neatly as possible, and his eyes seemed to sharpen, his body resuming to move again, this time almost three times the speed and agility as before. His legs darted quickly from side to side, leaping - or dashing - in between the darkened areas right under the evenly-spread birches just outside of town. His eyes locked onto the target, onto a very specific spot on the back of the President's neck, as the distance between them began to shrink at an astonishing pace.
He closed his eyes, his left hand revealing three small needles between his knuckles, each of them the size of a toothpick.
50 meters. His dark cloak would flutter noiselessly in the wind as he continued towards the other man.
30 meters. The other man seemed to show no sign of notice of the man behind him. He continued to walk nonchalantly, whistling to himself.
20 meters. A rush of excitement surged within the cloaked killer, and he started to laugh uncontrollably, his right arm outstretched with his hand clenched in a tight fist, the needles in between his knuckles.
The bloodthirsty assassin, his eyes still closed, bore such a calm expression that not even the most peaceful monk could imitate it.
The President had no chance from the beginning. The President himself did not know that, but his pursuer knew from a very long time ago. And at this very moment the President realized this, and his hand dropped the suitcase, his eyes widening in mad horror.
He started to run, moving his legs for dear life, with the face of a crazed madman.
But there was already nothing that could be done. He could not move his legs. He fell down on his face, his eyes bloodshot and his lips curled in agony. But he was not dead yet. Pain from his neck. He didn't know where it had come from.
The cloaked man knew, but there was no sign of the cloaked man. By this time, he was already long gone.
There was a lot of blood. So much blood from the little holes on the back of his neck. It poured out, beginning to drench his clothes. The life was draining out of him quickly.
But there was already nothing that could be done.
Blood was spilled.
Blood the color of Scarlet.