Emotion

It was done.

He stepped out of the door, closing it soundlessly behind him. Quietly, the man walked out into the snow.

The few people that were out and passed him without even glancing at him. If they'd even just bothered to look for a second, they'd just see a regular man in a black jacket, hood over his head to shield him from the snow, mask concealing half his face to protect him from the harsh icy air. Nothing interesting, nothing worth staring at. He was just part of the background, the stereotypical man rushing home in the snow.

Blend in. That was what he had been taught to do ever since he was six. Don't let yourself be noticed. Being noticed means attention. Attention means danger.

Snowflakes spiralled in the cold air, dancing in perfect synchronisation. A velvety white diamond of snow floated down gracefully and kissed him on his eyelashes.

He continued walking, with each step, feet sinking into the thick layer of snow. Icy tendrils of cold entangled themselves around his body. He pulled his jacket around himself more tightly.

The man turned right at the end of the block and walked a while more until he reached a bus stop. The bus stop was completely empty, not a person in sight. He didn't intend on taking the bus; it would mean a record of him would be left behind, telling everyone that a particular man had boarded a bus at a specific time, at a certain place...

But he was tired. He walked over to the bus stop, sat down on the bench. He removed the mask from his face, just for a while, to free his face from the discomfort of the thing clapping uncomfortably over it. He would just rest a bit, and then he would be on his way.

A girl walked to the bus stop. At seeing him, her eyes widened and she drew a hiss of surprise.

The man looked up, recognition flickering across his face.

He hadn't seen her in years. The last time they'd met, it had ended with her screaming at him, landing a stinging slap across his face, and running away and vanishing into the autumn night. 

He'd known that she'd moved house, but that she'd picked this area to live in was strange to him. She'd always loved lively, sunny places, frequently heading to the park or wildlife reserve. That'd she'd come to such a miserable, dull and dreary place surprised him. He got up from his seat, still not believing his eyes.

"You." The words escaped her lips, a harsh bullet of anger and accusation.

"Yes..." He exhaled softly, breath in the air, a whisper of white vapour. "Me."

Her stormy grey eyes glared into his. "Why are you here?" she asked.

"I had something I needed to do. That's all."

"And what exactly do you mean by that?"

He lowered his gaze. "Business."

She breathed deeply, and he could see her trembling. He looked up again, to see her eyes burning with ferocity and rage.

"Who was it?" she demanded. "Who was it this time?"

He didn't answer. There was no point in answering anyway.

She stepped forward, swiftly grabbing hold of his collar and yanking him forward. She wasn't like normal girls, he knew. He supposed it was characteristic of her to be rather violent when she was infuriated. 

"Out with it!" she snarled, and he could practically see the rage that burned within her eyes.

He stepped back, breaking out of her vise-like grip with complete ease, barely using any strength. Her hand fell back to her side, but she kept glaring.

"Nobody important," he replied, his voice soft, gentle and calm, the way it had always been. 

She clenched her fists at his words. "Nobody important? Nobody important? How could you say that? Every life has value. He might have had a wife. Children. A family, all depending on him to bring home food to put on the table. Did you ever consider that for a single second of your life?"

The truth was, he had. But it was easier not to think about it. Why make things more difficult? Anyway, after all these years, he was used to it. He did it without hesitation. It was a thing he did as normally, as casually as tying his shoelaces. It didn't even make him guilty or upset anymore. It was all part of life. His life.

He didn't want to speak to her anymore. He didn't want to feel emotion again. He'd trained himself not to feel emotion after all these years. Falling in love had been the one mistake he'd made. Emotion complicated things. Emotion was pointless.

Emotion is dangerous.

He turned to leave. Her hand shot forward and grabbed his arm. "You are not just going to leave like that! Wait!" He could hear her struggling not to cry.

He didn't turn to face her. He didn't yank his arm from her grasp. He just stood there, unmoving, eyes shut. Waiting.

"Wait..." she whispered, again, suddenly not at all like the raging tempest she had been just a few seconds ago, suddenly softer, warmer, pleading. A jolt of pain shot through his heart. This was how she'd been around him in the good old days.

When they'd been in love.

"You can't continue like this." She looked into his eyes pleadingly, rage gone, replaced completely with only sadness and pleading. "It's destroying you."

"It's my job," he replied.

"Then change it," she said. "It's ruining you. It's taking away your humanity. It's heartless. Cold-blooded. Selfish. It's not right."

They'd had this conversation before. The last time he'd been with her. Yes, the very same time where she'd stormed off after leaving the right side of his face red and stinging.

That night, it'd been too beautiful a night for such a thing to happen. It'd been years, and yet he could still remember every little detail. He was observant. He had to be, or he'd be dead by now. The bespeckled sky, a dark, endless canopy, stretching over their heads. The stars, diamonds of gold, scintillating gently in the oblivion of the night. A soft, gentle night breeze, caressing his face, playing with her auburn hair. And the moon. Silver, large, clear and perfectly whole and complete. More complete than he would ever be.

He felt himself stiffen from the memories. God, how he'd missed her. How he'd longed to be with her. How he'd longed to just hold her in his arms and hug her. Years of suppressed emotion surged up inside him, struggling to break free from the bonds that he'd restrained them with.

No, he couldn't afford to feel emotion. He struggled to fight it back down.

"You can change," she whispered, clinging onto his sleeve. "I tried to change you all those years we were together. I still will try, if only you let me."

"I don't like seeing you like this. I've seen that shred of you, the real you, the good you, when we were together. I'll find it again. I'm not afraid. I promise I'll help you find it again. I will fix you." Her eyes sparkled with tears.

"You don't have to be a killer. What you really are is not what you've been. You can come back. Come back, Drew."

Immediately, he tensed. "Don't call me Drew," he replied, and just like that, he quashed all his emotions. His heart returned to steel. No one had called him Drew for years. It reminded him of his childhood. Constant abuse, beatings, intensive training to become a killer. The childhood that had thrown him into fear, turned him stone-cold, stripped him of his emotion and his humanity, turning him into a heartless killing machine.

"I'm not Drew," he stated, his voice steely and controlled. "Not anymore. Never again. I am Crimson Rain. Call me that, or nothing at all."

"Drew, please," she begged him. He sent her an icy glare, reverted to his original unfeeling, unmoved and stone-cold state. 

The way he'd been his whole life.

And then there were sirens.

Police sirens.

His head snapped up, eyes focussed and alert. He turned swiftly to face her. His features were contorted with fury.

"You called them here!" he growled, wrenching his arm free from her grasp.

She shook her head in dismay. "No! I didn't! I swear!" She tried to grab his arm again.

He snarled at her, stepping away from her. He'd been such an idiot. He'd let himself get delayed, get distracted, let his guard down. 

Carelessness means death.

He'd let himself feel emotion again. He couldn't believe himself. Emotion was dangerous. He couldn't allow himself to ever feel it again.

He turned to look at her. She was the reason for all this. He knew what he had to do, and that sent pain streaking through his heart.

More emotion. Because of her. She really was a danger to him. He needed her gone.

His hand travelled to his side, fingers closed around the black, sleek object. He whipped it out, fingers skimming across the smooth, cold surface. He smelt metal and gunpowder. This gun had been the weapon he had used to kill the target just now. And now, he would use it again.

He pointed it at her, finger curling around the trigger, an action he was so familiar with now. His chest heaved up and down. He hesitated. He couldn't do it. He'd killed hundreds already, famous figures, billionaires, all kinds of people, and he couldn't bring himself to kill one girl. He hated himself.

Her eyes were wide. "Drew!" she pleaded.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He was running out of time. The police were close. Emotions were running rampant inside of him. They screamed at him not to pull the trigger, to let her live.

He made his decision. He took the emotions, and crushed them all. When he opened his eyes, they were cold and unfeeling.

He pulled the trigger.

She went rigid, hands travelling to her chest, where crimson was spreading outwards rapidly. There wasn't any anger in her eyes. Just overwhelming sorrow. 

I couldn't save you.

She'd tried. Her lips twisted in a sad, broken smile. She slumped forward, falling against him, grabbing onto him for support as her legs buckled beneath her. She gazed into his eyes one last time, before her hands went limp and she went crumpling to the ground.

A jolt of pain stabbed through him, but he crushed it. He looked at the lifeless girl on the ground, and reminded himself that she was nothing to him. 

He was meant to be alone. After all, a contract killer's life was a lonely one.

The police were approaching. He began to run, without looking back. He vanished, a shadow returning to the night.