His short, blond hair fluttered like butterflies, strands of gold that captivated all.
Quietly, the blackly cloaked figure slipped out the key given to him from his informant and twisted it in the keyhole.
The door slid open with a soft creak and the sound of soft, classical music pervaded the dark interior of his mind.
Unbidden, his mind flickered back to that day, the day he lost it all, the day when his very soul was ripped out and maliciously destroyed.
But now he would get his revenge.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked, sending him panicking.
He leapt, grabbing on to a pipe, but his tracksuit snagged on an overhang, exposing the scarred, mangled tissue beneath.
A fresh drop of blood tore free and plummeted, smashing into the ground with a plop.
Hastily, he tore a chunk off of his dark green tracksuit, the same colour as his eyes.
He unravelled it and tied it around the wound.
Pulling out his hook, he launched it around another pipe.
He swung across the empty floor and up on to the landing.
His heart heavy, he crawled along the Indian rug, remembering this same scene, so many years ago, but with another person.
Floors creaked as he got to his feet, and opened the door.
A crimson couch lay pride of place, with a massive television mounted on the wall.
He stepped in, closing the door with a soft click.
A body lay on the couch, with a continuous snore emanating from it.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the weapon that had sent so many to their graves.
Aiming it at the body, he cocked it.
But suddenly, some emotion overwhelmed him, something that he had not felt in a long time: affection.
Even though he was an assassin, and was trained to kill, he could not kill his own brother.
• By Alex Leckie-Zaharic, Year 8, John McGlashan College
