He was outside, the smoke off his cigarette wandering upwards, as he stared at the wall in front of him. He was leaning at an opposite wall, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the substance. He exhaled the last of the smoke. And threw the cigarette butt. 

It was 4AM. Signs of the coming morning slowly awakened. This was life to him. Normal life wasn’t any more an option. He remembered the face of his last victim. The fear in the victim’s eyes. The last breath. He didn’t want to think about it. About the potential of the victim’s life. If only he didn’t have to kill him. The victim’s dreams. Children. Wife… 

He lit another cigarette. Exhaled deeply. He had learned to be nonchalant about it. It was business. Nothing personal. He didn’t know the man. The victim’s eyes flashed before him again. It wasn’t personal, he repeated to himself. The fear, the victim’s muffled scream, the disappearance of movement. He watched him til his last breath. It was impossible to be impersonal. It was at that naked honesty of death, as the victim looked at his killer’s eyes, as his last sight. It was the purest vulnerability, purest submission, it was almost an act of trust. To look at the killer’s eyes at the very last moment. It was as if the victim was praying for mercy. Mercy on his killer. It was a supreme irony. As if I was the one who needed mercy, the killer thought. He was the killer. If the victim was asking for someone’s mercy, it should have been his. But he would have killed him anyway. 

The last cigarette was finished. He threw the butt down and stepped on it. A shade of gray blue was emerging. The sun would rise in a few hours. People would go about their daily lives. The world would be busy again. But not anymore for the victim.

The killer walked away.