Siegfried was a pale man. Dark, loose robes shrouded his lean form and a slouch hat cast a constant shadow on his face. A few hundred yards down a back alley stood another man – greasy and lathery, taking a bath in a barrel.

Sneaking into the alley, Siegfried felt nothing inside. He was trained by the best to be cold, calculating and objective. That’s probably why he made such an interesting assassin, but also why he sometimes felt his life was empty.

The cobbled street underfoot was strewn with gravel that crunched familiarly, as this murdering, cold hearted man dashed swiftly onwards. The alley was traversed in seconds, and Siegfried’s graphite dagger penetrated the victim’s exposed stomach.

Blood ran silently across coarse skin, mixing with soapy water, turning it a pale pink. Siegfried didn’t notice though, because right now he was couring on a rooftop five blocks away and as the sky opened above him, he let out a cry of shut-in emotions.