[ WP ] Everyone time someone hurts someone else , they feel an equal amount of pain in return . As a hitman , you have to get pretty creative

I walk through the somber white halls, taking in every detail of my surroundings. At this point, it's almost subconscious. The glance from the white-coat standing by the water cooler, the puddle collecting under the broken Purell dispenser, the flicker of that bulb blinking harsh, clinical light over me; all of it is processed in my brain and discarded just as smoothly. There's no room for clutter in this head; I would be long dead if that had not been the case. 
 
 I feel a little naked. When I had entered the lobby, I had been searched for weapons and came up clean. This is because I truly do not have my usual piece on me: my.22, which usually rests inside an inner pocket of my jacket, was back in my apartment, in a specially locked drawer. I had left all my insta-relief pain meds in there, too. Some in my line of work scoff at using them; they say that feeling the pain of your victim is an important part of being a hitman. They carry those invisible scars proudly. 
 
 What a load of bullshit. 
 
 This is a job, nothing else. I am an assassin not because I take some sick pleasure in ending people's lives and drinking in their pain like some drug addict. I murder for money. That's it. I'm good at it, I make my own rules of whom I'll kill, and I do it quietly and collect my fees and that's where it ends. 
 
 I pat the empty patch on my breast. The lack of weight is surprisingly noticeable. No matter, I do n't need the gun for this job. 
 
 I stop in front of **1750** and regard it dispassionately. I usually spend a little time right before the *moment* preparing myself mentally for the task, but I know that such is pointless for this job. I knock and enter quietly. After looking at my visitor's ID, the nurse-in-charge bids me goodbye and tells me to call her if anything came up. I nod, smiling politely. At last, I pull back the curtain. 
 
 An old man lies in the bed. Despite the floral patterning on his gown, the wires protruding from his nostrils, and the ugly lumps now creeping up his neck toward the back of his head, he still looks well-dignified. My eyes follows the iron-grey hair, neatly combed, down to the steel-blue eyes, which pierce into mine. 
 
 `` Hello, James,'' he says in a croaking voice. A small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, almost hidden by the plastic piece that feeds to a life support machine that hums quietly behind the bed. 
 
 `` Hamilton,'' I address him and then fall silent, waiting for further conversation. Truth be told, I am a little uneasy; after all, the situation was unusual. Normally, my victim does not get to see me. 
 
 `` Are you ready...,'' his sentence is interrupted by a cacophony of coughing, erupting from his riddled lungs, where the first masses had grown. ``... Ready to carry out your job?'' he finishes. 
 
 I sigh heavily. 
 
 This time, he does chuckle. `` What's wrong? Do n't tell me you're getting cold feet. You're a professional, after all. I do apologize that I can not meet your usual fee...'' 
 
 `` Just... shut up, OK?'' I blurt out. Very much not professional, but I ca n't help it. I take a few moments to compose myself. `` Are you... you sure this is what you want?'' I ask quietly, knowing full well the answer. 
 
 His eyes, though no less steel-blue, grow softer. `` Yes. We have discussed this for a long, long time. You *know* this is what I want. This is what I *need*.'' 
 
 I jerk my head in response, unable to speak properly. I reach down to the life support; it is a simple-looking machine, with most of its intricacies hidden behind chrome and plastic paneling. I unhook the emergency battery and then hold my hand over the main plug. I look at him again. 
 
 He nods, once. I look away and pull out the plug. I instantly feel a small kick of pain in my chest. I do not dare to look at him as the pain intensifies, and then begins to ebb away. 
 
 Faintly, I hear: `` Sorry... for that. But soon... you'll feel no more pain. An easy job... huh?'' A pause. And then: `` Proud... of you...'' 
 
 I do not answer. I wait a full minute before re-installing the emergency battery and plugging the machine back in. I slowly turn and look at the man in the bed. His eyes stare beyond me, into some other world I do n't hope to see anytime soon. 
 
 I close the lids. `` You're wrong, dad,'' I say quietly. 
 

