Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24841494-20140320153917

I wrote up the first few paragraphs, and wanted to see want people think.

Cold steel rested on the unwashed cheek of the homeless man. Someone wanted him dead. It did not matter who or why, as long as the pay was enough. Besides, fun was fun. And he loved his job.

The muddy man in tattered clothes turned to face his assailant. He was suited in thick and light leather, with a coat over top. In his left hand was a massive arabian dagger that looked more suited in a museum. The blade, handle, and guard flowed perfectly into a wicked point. Masking his visage was a terrifying white mask, gleaming, despite the lack of light in the cold alley. The mask was featureless, excluding the wide manic smile carved into its surface, and the two empty almond eyes, with a crimson tear dripping down it. Not a single word nor sound came for the beast. The man, however, screamed, yelled, and shouted for help.

The masked one quickly jabbed his blade into the mans chest, turning his screams to gurgles. Blood flowed freely from the gaping hole penetrating his chest, piercing his lungs. After a few more seconds, he breathed his last breath, drowning in his own blood. The man did not worry about leaving evidence. The authorities would have nothing to go on, anyway. He had no records, no birth certificate, no fingerprints, and no name. He didn’t exist.

Catching the assassin by surprise, he heard a shout. He expected the area to be abandoned, this late in the night. How reckless of him. The witness only caught a momentary glimpse at the masked man, before he vanished, the wind rushed to fill the man shaped absence in the air. 