Sitting in the first row he could see the dampness of her skin, smell the scent of her perfume, and when she slid across the floor he was privy to her vulnerability. She did it with class, nothing filthy or raunchy. It was tasteful and sudden, a brief glimpse of what could be possible if you were the right man or woman.
He sipped at his bourbon while watching the performance, the interior was much too dark for him to really make out the rest of the audience but he had tailed his mark here and he’d play the part of a guest in the audience just as anyone else.
After a few drinks he found himself mesmerized by the performance, eager to enjoy the company of the performer, interested in protecting her from the undoubted mass that would swarm her upon conclusion of her act. But he wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t swarm, he would let the chaos be the cover of his ploy. A dissenter of order, a monger of deception, a piece of trash to be discarded and in doing so he end the life of his mother’s messenger to the Drustvar Cult dressed in plain clothes in an effort to blend in with his surroundings. Ideal really, if he hadn’t witnessed the change himself so many times before.
When the crowd finally dispersed and she was safe in her dressing quarters the light would reveal a lifeless body found it a pool of it’s own blood, a silent extradition of life taken without note and no one around to accept credit for the job done.
Clean and confident a knock was given at the woman’s door. Upon opening it neither exchanged pleasantries, neither needed to. She invited him in and he closed the door behind him.