I did as I often do, and met up with him as I do with marks at times. We talked, I flirted... He called me a "slut" or something of the kind before shooting at me and running. He did not deserve any kindness, any easing into the darkness.
It is interesting at times to see just how many times you can cut a person before they truly start to die. Pouring the liquid into his wounds. He was barely alive when I started the fire, in shock. Tied to a chair. Bleeding and so very lovely. The look in his eyes was delicious. He deserved it for his words.
Unfortunately, I did not realize that the building I had cornered him in contained many... fuochi d'artificio. It was glorious, though I barely escaped with my own life. So pretty, the sparks, the fire... The sounds. That crackling, the explosions. The colors. I managed to find my way to a nearby rooftop for the show.
Pretty. I like warehouses rather a lot. I am wounded now... It hurts.