The job’s over.
Kirill slides the key card through the lock noiselessly and slips into the room. The door clicks shut behind him quietly.

He tosses the bag with the guns on the bed. Coat and boots land on the floor.
His employer looks up from the newspaper. “So?”

Kirill glares. “It’s done.”

“Good.” A wad of dirty cash lands on the dusty table with a smack. Wordlessly, he thumbs through it once, then tucks it away safely in the hidden part of his bag and zips up the compartment with a quick flick of the wrist.
“So, tonight? A civilised dinner? Drinks?”

He shakes his head, stripping off his shirt and sweaty tee. Shower. Eat. Fuck.

“Well.” The other man smirks slyly. “Women then, maybe? It’s all on the house, you know.”

Kirill looks at him in disgust. Pay for sex? As if.
“Go now,” he says briskly, moving into the bathroom. “Don’t contact me again.”

The other murmurs angrily under his breath. The door slams shut. Kirill shrugs and turns the hot water tap till steam starts to fog the mirror. One job for one person, once. That’s the rules.

One scalding hot shower, grabbing a shirt from the lonely hanger in the closet, and he’s out.
In a small, dark dive, he orders steak and fries and scowls at the waiter when he places a pale, flaccid salad in front of him. Nervously, the jittery boy hurries away.
Kirill rips a roll in half and sweeps it over his plate to gather the juice that has dripped from the meat.

Chewing, he takes a swig of beer, habitually scanning the clientele over the bottle. Not interesting. Good.
He tips just enough to not be remembered. When he walks outside, snow crunches under his boots.

In the club, the heat is so thick that you can see it wafting under the low ceiling, cut by stroboscope lights. For a moment, as he stands at the top of the rusty metal staircase, the music stops, and high-pitched jabbering voices can be heard. A frown tugs at his lips, but then the beat starts hammering again, vibrating through his taut muscles, and he stirs from his spot, walking down to the core of the pit.

Hot bodies rub against him as he crosses the dancefloor. His blood red shirt clings to his skin damply. Arms wrap around his neck, a voice whispers. “Care to dance?”
A glance. Black, tight, see-through dress. Long legs. She’ll do. He pulls her along with a tight grip on her wrist.

“Sit.” Her lips curve into a smile. They sparkle too much. He tosses back a glass of vodka.

“What’s your name, honey?” she asks. Her fingers trail up his arm, over his shoulder, into the vee at his chest.

“Don’t talk,” he answers. The taste of liquor drowns all else as he kisses her hard. When he breaks away to down another shot, she’s gasping for breath. Her smile doesn’t sparkle quite as much.

Two more shots, and he’s good to go. The music pounds like a heartbeat, throbbing in his cock.
In the bathroom, the neon lights are broken, splintered glass litters the floor. It is conveniently dark, the air stale. Like this night.

She presses up against him and seeks his lips, and he allows the kiss for a moment till the lingering flavour of the vodka wears off and he can taste her. His hand wraps in her too-blonde hair to pull sharply.
“Naughty,” she drawls, but her pupils dilate when again, he tugs, hard.
Wordlessly, she sinks to her knees and unbuckles his belt, unzips his jeans to wrap her warm, sticky fingers around him. “Oh, wow,” she whispers in awe, but then his hand is in her hair again and he pulls her close and she envelops him with her hot mouth and finally shuts the fuck up.

“Come on,” he growls when she runs her tongue around him in tantalizingly slow circles. It’s a game, his game, and the bint is going to play by his rules. He jerks his hips forward sharply. “Come on, bitch.”

She pulls away long enough to sneer at him, batting her fake lashes mockingly, but he grabs her neck with bruising strength and forces her back down on him before she can protest. She gets it, he can feel it by the way her breathing speeds up, her pulse throbs under his fingers, her muscles loosen as she grows pliant and follows where he directs her.
It’s his game. She’s learned to play.

He groans as she swallows around him, once, twice, dragging her teeth over his cock so it hurts just right. He shoves her away. Her lips are swollen and red and all sparkle is gone, her eyes heavy-lidded with lust. Kirill smirks. He’s a phantom, untraceable, invisible, almost nonexistent; only on his fucks does he leave imprints, and he likes to see them bruised and worn, used and discarded, all pretence of glamour chipped off.

In death and in sex, there’s no pretending, if you know how to do it right, and he does. It’s the most real people can get.
He pulls her up and pushes her into the wall, yanking down her underwear. She claws at his back with long, sharp nails as he lifts her, hooking her knees over his arms. When he shoves himself inside, she cries out, and he likes that, too. He seldom gets an opportunity to make them scream all he likes.

He fucks the same way he kills, fast, silent, without mercy. Moaning, she is slammed into the wall, again and again, her laboured breaths loud in his ears, her body slick and hot. When she throws her head back under a particularly vicious thrust and cries out in pleasure and pain, he bites her exposed shoulder until he tastes blood.
She screams then, a high-pitched, angry wail, her muscles spasm around him reflexively, and he shudders with his climax, lapping at the wound.

It is so much better when they bleed. Better than a kill, even, because that’s strictly business, and he can never do it quite as he likes. If he could, if it was personal, that’s how he’d do it, he thinks as he lets her go abruptly and she slides down the wall in an undignified heap, panting harshly. Make her bleed as he fucks her, then finish her off while he comes. Imagine the death grip on his cock…

He almost grins at his own wit, but then only turns toward the smeary mirror and straightens his collar, washes his hands.
“Hey.” Behind him, the girl struggles to stand on unsteady feet. “What about me?”

“You can go now,” he says briskly. One fuck per girl, once. It’s the rules.

“Asshole,” she mutters, picking a shard of glass from her knee. Without a backwards glance, Kirill slips out to walk down the dark corridor, zipping up his pants. Whatever.