Four lines of prose about: the assassin.
Got a bit more work done on the cabin today, and tomorrow we tackle the new kitchen counter. Hopefully all goes reasonably smoothly.
Finally starting to get used to not having to write madly every day.
The poison-tipped blade was still concealed within his sleeve as he closed in on his target. The room was crowded, the air bursting with drunken conversation and too-loud music, just the sort of perfect chaos he liked to work with.
The man he'd been hired to kill was seated facing away from him on a large black sofa, surrounded by beautiful, stupid women who would not notice he was dead for at least five minutes.
A mere three feet away, the assassin let his dagger fall into his hand as he readied for the blow; but just as he did so an intoxicated partygoer stumbled into him, causing the tip of the blade to slice open the assassin's middle finger.