[ WP ] you have been given a breifcase which produces one million dollars each time it 's opened . The combination to the case is the birthdate of the last person you killed and the combination must change with each use .

It's surprising how easily someone would murder for money - but who was I to judge when I am the instigator? 
 
 I leaned back into my Pininfarina ’ s Aresline Xten office chair, it was an odd thought to consider that this chair cost me exactly three lives. I let my eyes scan over my lavish room and mulled over the amount of lives it took, twenty? No, it was closer to fifty. 
 
 This room was dripping red from all the blood and because of this I could no longer see any expense as a *money* expense; it all came down to the amount of lives it cost. My trip, stay and additional expenses in Venice cost me just over one life and for what? A week of fun? 
 
 I was pulled from my thoughts when a few loud raps echoed around the room. 
 
 `` Come in,'' I said loud enough that he could hear me through the door. 
 
 When he entered he was shaking and pale, clasping a single piece of paper in his hand like his life depended on it. 
 
 `` Approach,'' I said as I now opened my desk drawer and pulled out **the** briefcase; for a measure of protection I also removed my handgun and rested it on my lap. 
 
 I plopped the briefcase down on the hardwood desk and held my hand out to the shaking man. 
 
 He immediately shoved the piece of paper into my hand. I looked into his eyes and saw the immediate greed. 
 
 I opened the paper and scanned over the contents before returning my attention to the briefcase. With gentle hands I entered the necessary combination and felt that satisfying click of the lock being released. 
 
 I flipped open the lid and gingerly separated the contents into two piles and removed the one half, tossing the stacks onto the table as I looked up at the man. He was already hastily shoving the money into a bag. 
 
 `` You've done good, now go kill that friend of yours that caused your marriage to spiral downwards.'' I directed and he nodded before leaving the room at a hurried pace. 
 
 Once he was gone I put away the gun and leaned back into the chair, looking at the half mil still resting in the briefcase. It did n't take long for me to figure out all I had to do was command the death and the blood would be on my hands and the dates would still work. 
 
 So why should I feel guilty? I'm not the one doing the killing after all and who could resist getting paid to kill those they do n't like with the mere request being the'trophy' of their birth date? 
 
 *No one. * 

