Bored, the Assassin spins the thin straw between his fingers, watching the bustle of the hotel lobby from his seat at the bar. Drink finished, he spears the cherry at the base of his glass, pulls his gloves back on and slides off his seat.

Fifty-seven steps from the platform of the bar to the hotel lobby bathroom. Nobody even glances his way, and why would they? He is just another man in a suit, enjoying an afternoon drink after work. Nobody notices that he opens the door to the bathroom, and never comes back out.

Instead, he steps through to the plush carpet of a newly-furbished Pimlico flat, all in neutral creams and beige. It’s the kind of flat that has rotating tenants so often, there’s no need to redecorate. He stares for a moment at the featureless hotel room artwork in the entrance hall, inoffensive parallel lines on overlapping fuzzy cream shapes.

The flat reminds him of the first place he’d ever stumbled into. That one was a break in gone wrong. The alarm was still active, screaming out to the street that they were there. The metal shutters had dropped and sirens blared from the back exit. It was in panic, praying under his breath, that he’d opened the bathroom door looking for a window but it didn’t open into the dingy toilet block he’d expected. Instead, it was into someone’s front room. With shouting from behind him and the blue light of the police cars pulsing through the shop, he’d shut off the logical part of his brain and stepped straight through. He slammed the door behind him and stood doubled over, hands on his knees, catching his breath in a flat he gradually recognised as one he’d walked past the window of that morning.

Working out how to open to somewhere specific rather than just random chance took some practice, some awkward encounters and more than a little trial and error.

The current occupant of this place certainly hasn’t spent much time making it his own. An empty-looking bookcase houses a few colourful ring binders and a lone photo of a pretty girl in sunglasses, but no books. The most impressive thing in the flat is a huge television, stark black against the pale wallpaper. A congregation of empty beer bottles form a green glass bouquet on the mantelpiece.

He has a wander around while he waits. The kitchen could do with a clean; the congealing cereal bowl from that morning’s breakfast (and possibly the day before) is still on the counter top and there’s the faint, familiar smell of London’s sewage system wafting up from a sink that could do with a thorough scouring.

He takes off his jacket, and sets aside one of the beers from the fridge for later. Meticulously, the Assassin rolls up his sleeves one by one, buttoning them in place at his elbows with laboured, careful attention. He runs his fingertips up and down the brushed wool sleeve of his suit jacket while he waits.

While he wouldn’t say he enjoys his job, he certainly enjoys the anticipation. With each exhale, he readies himself, breathing out the version of him that he separates from his work until all that’s left is steely, sharp focus.

From further into the flat, the sound of the shower suddenly stops. He’s measured the distance before from the kitchen to the bedroom. Twenty-one steps. There’s no hurry, he does it in twenty-five.

The knife from his belt glides across the guard’s neck the moment he steps out of the bathroom. His victim barely has time to look shocked. A strong arm hooks around his shoulders and pushes his head back. Mouth a thin line, the Assassin holds him firm until he stops struggling. He considers saying something to help, but experience has taught him that there is nothing you can say to comfort someone who knows there is no way out.

The man is dead in a matter of minutes, the dark stain of his blood blossoming into the flower patterns of the cream bedroom carpet. Possibly, the dying guard regrets his choice of job in those last few moments as he clocks the mage standing behind him. Perhaps not. Perhaps he feels vindicated to find out that they really are as dangerous as he’s been told.

The Assassin doesn’t linger. It won’t take too long for the guard to be discovered. He has been hunting the scruffy-haired girl for a few weeks now so he’s sure to have been checking in with whatever HQ he answers to; but this will buy her a few days at the very minimum.

He has a quick flick through the ring binders, pulls out the pages that he needs and then collects the beer and his suit jacket from the kitchen before heading back through the bathroom door with a plea that it will take him to one of the unoccupied rooms of the hotel he’d just left.

The jacket and bottle are thrown onto the neatly made bed. He heads into the bathroom to wash the specks of blood off his shoes in the mottled marble sink.

The face he catches in the mirror is handsome, but pinched. The blonde of his hair grows in ashy grey at the temples, and the lines of his frown are carved into his face. His clean-shaven jawline makes him look younger than he is. Against the backdrop of the expensive hotel room decor, he is reminiscent of the sort of man who might appear in commercials for razors or shampoo with his easy smile and polished, but effortless appearance. It is a look he takes a great deal of care to cultivate and one that has saved him more times than he can count. Few people are willing to believe tall tales of a man who disappears without a trace. Even fewer are willing to believe that anyone attractive and presentable could be guilty of anything criminal.

He is gone from the room at first light, leaving no sign of him ever having been there, save for the emptied mini bar. The pages from the folder sit safely folded in his inside jacket pocket.

Having taken out one of the pawns, he will find it interesting to see how the rest of the pieces move.

Next Chapter: Guardian