The crashing sound echoed throughout the house. I groaned, fluttering my eyes open and forcing myself out of bed. Pulling my long blonde hair into a quick ponytail, I checked the time.

"Do I really have to deal with this at 3 am?" I muttered. I walked out of bedroom, straight into the living room. My favorite vase was on the ground, shattered into pieces. I scoffed.

"Someone doesn't know how to do their job," I muttered. I walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. I ran my finger over the edge. Not as sharp as I would prefer but it would do. I grasped the gold necklace I was wearing and took it off, tossing it onto the kitchen table. Whoever was in my house took the bait, silently creeping towards it.

Not silently enough.

In one swift motion, I turned and flung the knife. It hit its target. The person collapsed to the floor, unmoving, a pool of sticky, red liquid seeping out of the wound. I examined the mess, wincing as the blood began to spread farther.

"Gosh, I have to stop getting blood all over these hardwood floors....."

The next day, I reluctantly got up early for work. When I arrived, my boss scanned me over, taking in my appearance.

"Didn't get much sleep last night, Luna?" she said, raising one eyebrow. My hand instinctively shot up to rub the bags under my eyes, as if that might make them leave.

"What gave it away?" I teased. She chuckled, before handing me a file.

"Your assignment for today," she said, nodding at it. I opened it. Inside was a picture of a young man named Carl Wilson.

"He's one of the most skilled guards at the next casino we're going to rob. Figured we might pick him off early. And who better to do it than one of our most skilled assassins?"

"I won't let you down ma'am," I said, "I am after all, the golden assassin."

My boss's chauffeur offered to drive me himself. I accepted the offer. He dropped me off a short walk away from the casino were Wilson worked. Slipping past security was the easy part...finding Wilson was the hard part. Eventually I spotted a man in a guard uniform that matched the picture I was provided. I approached him. Something flashed in his eyes when he spotted me. Recognition? I shook my head slightly. No, it was probably nothing.

"Excuse me," I said, "Some man over there is bothering me. Could you help?" Wilson nodded and gestured with his hand for me to lead the way. I lead away from the crowd, into a supply closet. I shut the door and locked it. I expected him to act surprised, scared, mad even. Except he just stood there, completely calm. That's alright. Makes him an easier target. I pulled a knife out, but before I could throw it, something hard connected with my skull. Everything went black.

When I came to my senses, Wilson was crouched in front of me, chuckling softly. My hands were bound behind me tied to a pole.

"After all these years..." he said, "we meet again. I could never forget your cold, unforgiving gaze."

"Um," I said, "This is awkward. Do I know you?"

Something hot flashed in his cold, blue eyes. But then he laughed.

"Figures you don't remember me. I was only eight at that time anyway." I knew from the file that he was eighteen. It had been ten years since I had apparently met him before. I thought long and hard trying to make a connection.

"Um," I said, "Sorry. I have no idea who you are."

"Do you at least remember my father?" He snapped, "Do you remember him at your feet, begging and crying before you plunged a knife into his heart?"

"You're going to have to be more specific," I said, "there were lots of people like that."

He made a frustrated noise before saying, "Felix Cooper! Does that ring a bell?"

It did indeed. I remember a middle-aged man, begging me to spare him, saying he had a son to provide for. That was one of my first kills. I was only ten. My hands shook when I buried the knife in his body. When I washed the blood off later. They shook when I thought about it.

They don't anymore.

I raised an eyebrow. "Your name is not Carl Wilson, is it?"

"No," he sighed, and I just realized he was gripping a knife. He raised it over his head. "And you're going to carry that secret to your grave." He brought the knife down. I kneed his groin before he could plunge it into my heart. He collapsed, groaning. I freed my hand holding up the rope he used to tie me down.

"You really need to work on your knotting skills," I said, "and shortening your monologues. Too bad you won't have the chance."

I pried my knife from his grip.

"I'll make this quick," I said. And so, I did. I keep my word. The blood seeped onto the hardwood floor, and I winced.

"Poor janitor," I muttered, slipping out of the closet. I left the casino, another assignment completed. I almost felt bad for the boy I killed. Before I remembered he tried to kill me.

Nobody messes with me.