The room was dark. Shadows hung from the walls like expensive art. Silence was wrapped around everything, and nothing moved. A curtain fluttered, sharply breaking the mood with a dark flash of red silk. A figure began dancing lightly through the room, even holding his hands up and humming a soft tune as he spun. His feet made no noise on the floor. His movements were fluid and his figure beautiful in the faded light.

The dancer reached the door perhaps sooner than he expected; he dropped his hands and moved through it stealthily. Closing it quietly behind him he crept a few more steps, tiptoeing cautiously. His body was crouched as if he were a child playing a game. Then he saw the stairs and skipped lightly up them, pausing only on the landing to look with comical wonder at the paintings adorning the walls. The he was up again, and as he reached the top he put his hand on the railing and spun himself around.

He took in the surroundings quickly and fell back into his cautious step. This time it was not humorous. In one hand he held a short knife. He was counting his steps, and he paused by the first door. Shaking his head, he moved on. At the second door he leapt across the hall and landed lightly so he was again moving along the wall. He stopped by a statue, a thin white marble water nymph. He breathed in, gathering himself. Slowly he moved past the statue, opened the door and stepped through it sharply. The childishness in his steps was gone. With barely a glance he took in the entirety of the stranger's bedroom. He now was fast, not hurried, but instead unnaturally calm and confident in the stranger's bedroom.

He sheathed the knife and took out another. The second glinted in the dim moonlight; its edge was smooth and shone sharp in the night. long, quick strides took him to the bed. The man in it was lying on his side, his head resting on an arm, his legs half curled up to him. Barely glancing at the figure that lay in it he took the knife in his fist.

With a quick clean stroke he drew the knife across the man's neck, a hand holding the head steadily. The victim woke up just as his vocal chord was cut. He trashed wildly. His legs caught in the sheets but one of his arms crashed against the bedpost. Loudly, his lungs began gasping in gurgles of breath through the thick blood that was pulsing over the killer's hand.

Holding his head steady for a few seconds the man began to hum a soothing lullaby to his victim. The trashing began to subside and he stepped back away from the bed, watching his work. The figure writhed for several, awful moments. Noise, gasping but not screaming, filled the room. His blood was still gushing heavily over the bed sheets, dropping to the floor and pooling in a demonic, inky pool. The man watched as the man died, and all became quiet. He stepped forward and placed his hands against the underside of the man's jaw. He waited a moment before stepping back again, satisfied. His hidden features seemed suddenly cruel as the warm blood continued to seep onto the bed. Looking around again he assessed the room.

Quickly he walked to the far end of the room where a dresser stood. Various items were tossed to the floor. Some he slipped into his pockets. Then he came to the bottom drawer and pulled it fully out. Pulling clothes aside he came to what he knew was there. A small box, ornately carved with two birds decorated in jewels. It was extremely valuable and worth murdering for. He put it into a pocket before he walked to the window. For a while he just stood on the ledge, staring at the misty clouds that half-hid the stars. His chest rose with every breath he drew in.

Turning his head he stared over his shoulder at the still-warm dead man. He nodded curtly, the master to the pupil acknowledging a job well done. Then the assassin took a step forward, and dropped.