Three
[He does love his vocation.
When he slips back into his apartment, his terribly covert apartment that nobody knows of, he is covered in blood and happily so. Blood in his hair, blood on his cheeks, blood under his fingernails - so deep that he knows that he’s done the job well.
He admires himself in the mirror, traces a pleased finger over the still damp red. The only thing left of that man, that man who had nobody to care about him and nowhere to go. That man who would be easily forgotten, perhaps tutted over by the police (he knows how to cover his tracks, after all) for a few minutes and then dismissed without a thought.
That man did scream so.
Apep smiles at himself in the mirror again, and gets to work cleaning away the obvious signs of his happy job. His beloved job.]
[Filter: Egyptians]
I assume that I can no longer get in? Such a pity, I was looking forward to another little chat.
[Filter: Set]
How is your poor head, my dear boy?