A knock on my door signalled the arrival of Scar. I live in a scummy little apartment in the loft of a really posh home in the heart of Buckinghamshire, completely free. I doubt the downstairs occupants even know of my existence, or if they ever did they soon forgot through the extremely persuasive methods of my superiors.

The door scrapes open and he walks in. Scar is named so because although intelligent, assassins, like pirates, are remarkably unimaginative when it comes to names. A scar stretches from the top of his right eyebrow to the cleft of his chin, the result of a katana blade during training he claims, although the rest of us imagine a more mundane type of accident involving a fence.

“You’re up, Nameless,” Scar waves at me.
“I shouldn’t have to wait to enter my own study,” I said before ambling out into the hallway. Slowly I opened the door and jumped back in shock as the whole Assosciation sprung on me.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”