[ Blood the same color as the carpet and as it dries, just as tacky. A shotgun in a stateroom seems gauche. It hangs in his hand all the same. Dirty work pays the bills; murder mends the mind. Maybe. Maybe. There’s a scrape of a hum - and then there’s nothing at all. ]

[ Gear in a black duffel bag: firearms and nonlethal rounds, cigarettes, a comm unit, a bottle of wine wrapped in a swath of fabric. Might be time for a visit soon. ]

Moira O'Deorain >TELLING ALL YOUR FRIENDS YOU GOT DEEZ NUTZ IN YOUR FACE.

Goodnight Winston

[ Intrusive thought: In the silence, in the dark, in his guise of invisibility in the shadows, it wouldn’t take more than a hand closing around a throat. Wouldn’t see it coming. Could drown in the smoke. ]

[ Bone-white mask in one clawed hand. The blunt fingers of the other pinch a cigarette. They're as dry and unfeeling as the rolling paper, calloused, weathered. Smoke scratches the back of his throat. Eyes narrow at a too-warm noon sun. Everything feels like dust beneath it. ]

Sombra.

That was P̵͚̪͌͐R̷̳͛Ï̸̩̣V̴̭̪͂̿Ã̸̭͕T̵̼͘Ę̶͔͝.

You cannot kill me in a way that matters.