The Final Strife

“That’s what all the assassins say.”

“You’ve met more than one?”

“No, I’ve read about them, though.” Anoor jutted her chin to the stack of zines by her bed. Their brightly colored pages and scandalous covers promised drama and discourse as the stories unfurled.

The woman took another step forward.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Anoor warned her.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I mean it, I wouldn’t take another step forward.”

The assassin wasn’t listening.

So when she triggered the bloodwerk trap, the paperweight hit the assassin square in the middle of her forehead.

The assassin crumpled to the ground.