The darkness in his apartment was absolute, consuming every surface, every corner. No ambient light penetrated the heavy curtains; no lamp welcomed him home. Mina moved through the blackness with practiced ease, making his way to the bathroom without bothering to illuminate his path.
The sudden brightness as he flipped the bathroom switch was an assault on his dilated pupils. His reflection in the mirror was a ghastly thing—skin pallid beneath streaks of dirt and dried blood, eyes sunken into dark hollows. He barely recognized himself.
Violent nausea struck again. He bent over the toilet, body convulsing as it tried to expel what wasn't there. No blood appeared this time, but the dry heaving tore at his wounded abdomen. When the spasm passed, he turned on the shower with trembling hands and began to undress, each movement deliberate and agonizingly slow.
Steam gradually filled the small bathroom as Mina stepped under the spray. Water cascaded over his battered body, turning pink as it swirled down the drain. The heat penetrated his rigid muscles, providing momentary relief from the bone-deep chill that had settled in his marrow. He reached for soap, examining his wound more carefully now.
The knife had sliced deep into his side but had mercifully missed vital organs. Still, he had lost considerable blood—too much. Under the harsh bathroom light, his skin had taken on a waxy, translucent quality. He applied ointment from a medical kit kept for such occasions, then dressed the wound properly with sterile gauze and tape.
Clean and bandaged, Mina moved through his apartment like a ghost haunting his own life. The kitchen yielded nothing—no food, no note, not even the cupcake that sometimes appeared on the counter, evidence of Grisham's occasional concern. Nothing but empty cabinets staring back at him, mirroring the hollowness he felt inside.
Loneliness crashed over him with physical force. He crumpled to the floor in a specific spot—the same spot he always chose when the void grew too vast to bear. Sobs wracked his frame, the sound primitive and raw, yet no tears came. Tears were a luxury his body could no longer produce.
His arms wrapped around his torso in a grotesque self-embrace, fingernails digging into his own skin until they left crescent-shaped indentations. The fresh bandage grew spotted with blood as his movements reopened the wound, but the physical pain was almost welcome—a distraction from the emptiness.
With desperate movements, Mina searched for the small box he kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard—the bottle of sleeping pills that sometimes granted him temporary oblivion. His fingers closed around the plastic container, only to discover it empty. Grisham had made good on his threat, removing the medication Mina had come to depend upon.
Nothing remained but darkness and his chronic insomnia. Hours passed as he lay curled on the floor, consciousness refusing to release its grip until exhaustion finally overcame even his tortured mind. Sleep claimed him at last, dragging him down into merciful blackness.
For once, no nightmares plagued his rest. When consciousness returned, sunlight had invaded the apartment, dust motes dancing in the golden beams that penetrated the gaps in his curtains. The unexpected knock at his door jarred him fully awake.
Mina rose stiffly, his wound protesting the movement. He pulled on a clean shirt and pants before approaching the door with instinctive caution. The peephole revealed a man he recognized immediately—one of Simoneau's messengers.
When he opened the door, his expression automatically shifted to one of careful neutrality.
"Why are you here?" Mina asked, voice still rough from sleep and last night's ordeal.
The messenger's face remained impassive. "Mr. Simoneau requests your presence at the office. You should be there around twelve. Don't be late."
That was all—no explanation, no acknowledgment of Mina's condition. The messenger turned and descended the staircase, disappearing from view.
"Damn it," Mina muttered, tension already rebuilding in his shoulders. "That moron."
Stress coiled in his gut as he prepared himself for the meeting. There was no specific dress code for assassins, but appearances mattered to Simoneau. The suit would have to do, despite the discomfort it would cause his bandaged torso.
Into a backpack went the tools of his trade—various knives of different lengths and designs. Unlike some in his profession, Mina never used guns. It wasn't ignorance that prevented him; he was well-trained in firearms. Rather, it was preference—the intimacy of a blade, the skill required, the silence. A knife never jammed, never ran out of ammunition, and could serve multiple purposes.
Preparations complete, Mina stood at his door, ready to depart. His gaze lingered longer than necessary on the empty hallway, as if expecting someone to materialize and bid him farewell. No one did. No one ever did.
A silent sigh escaped him as he locked the door, his eyes momentarily revealing the vast emptiness within before the professional mask slid back into place. He descended the staircase to the street below, where morning sunlight transformed the neighborhood.
Nothing in the cheerful daylight suggested the violence that regularly unfolded in these same streets after dark. The juxtaposition was jarring—how quickly blood could be washed away, how easily evidence of suffering could be erased by sunrise.
Mina walked through the wealthy part of town, a shadow moving among the privileged. All around him, people lived their ordinary lives—couples holding hands, women chatting animatedly over coffee, businessmen hurrying to meetings with purpose in their steps. He observed them with the detached curiosity of an alien studying a foreign species, feeling impossibly small against the backdrop of their casual happiness.