In an ally in the lower part of the city, a shadowy figure moved silently through the dark. Cristoforo froze in the cover of a rooftop's shadow, fading almost perfectly into the darkness. A flick of the wrist, and a small silver blade about 6 inches long was in His right hand. He froze for a while to make sure no one was following, then took a glance down the alley toward the street He came from. Mentally he counted the houses. Five away from the street, this was the place. He took one last look around, then dared to take a breath.

The smell of beer, rotting animals, and human waste was the smell that greeted his nose. Cristoforo almost fainted from the scent, but quickly regained his composure. It had been a while since he had to take a job in the low rent district of the city, and he had almost forgotten the stench that came with a job in this location.

He swung himself up onto a window sill, and used the blade of His knife to pry it opened. No squeaking was heard, and the window slid opened as silent as the rest of the city was at this hour. He quietly whispered a thank you to his scouting partner under His breath, and slipped down into the room.

It was pitch black, save for a tad bit of light from under the door to the bedroom. A cheap table, a bath that also served as a sink, a waste bucket for a toilet, and some rusty dither that seemed to be unused for that reason was all that decorated the place. He quietly slipped to the other side near the light, careful not to trip over any of the many cracks in the wood floor. Pressing his ear against the door, he heard the sound of pen scratching on paper.

He waved His hand through the air, moving His fingers to channel some magic. His fingers glowed for a moment, and left a trail of light that lingered in the air for a moment before fading back to darkness. Strong magic here, like in most of the city. He glanced at the latch on the door, and then waved his hand over it. The latch lifted silently, and then froze in the open position, not making a sound. Another wave of His hand, and the door hinges were silent as well.

A bead of sweat ran down His face. No matter how many times I do this, the risk is always the same. Do, or die.

He threw open the door. The young man looked up startled, then fearful. He opened his mouth to scream...but it was too late. A silence spell had been cast on him. He was about to get up and out of the chair, reaching for a sword on the wall beside him.

Cristoforo let the blade fly. Years of training assured that the knife would hit it's target, and a moment later the man was on his back on the floor, blood pouring from the remains of his slather throat.

Cristoforo picked up the knife, and waved another spell over the man. The pain in his neck was gone, and as the blade slid deep into his heart he felt nothing but cold steel. Again and again the blade was thrust, till he had lost all senses and the world faded forever mercifully.

Picking up the blade one last time, Cristoforo whispered some prayers for the man's soul, and then started casting water spells with His hands to wash the blood down in between the floorboards, and clean His blade, hands, and arms.

The rest of the night, would be spent using the small hatchet in His left pocket to chop, then wash the body away as well. By morning, all that would remain would be the man's belongings, and another terrible stain on Cristoforo's heart.