Damian's Assassin

Bianca awoke in a cocoon. The sheets were so fine and light they seemed to melt against her skin. The bed molded to her body with each movement, encouraging her to stay there even longer. Her hair was damp at the roots but her long curls as bouncy and cheerful as she felt fatigued.

She rolled onto her side, body aching from exertion. The sheets smelled of a man with an ensnaring scent, a mixture of dark musk and soap. She breathed it in again before climbing from the bed.

His room was clean to the point of anal, his color scheme black on white. Even the pictures on the wall were black and white photography in black frames. He had no family pictures, no trinkets or doodads like she had all over her apartment. There was an alarm clock on the nightstand beside the black base of a lamp. It read 6:23AM.

The door to the room was closed. She eyed it nervously, not wanting to venture past the safety of the bedroom. Crossing the threshold into the bathroom, she paused to look at herself in the mirror with a grimace. She wore an oversized shirt and boxer shorts, neither of which was hers.

However, on the counter was a folded pair of jeans, a set of matching bra and underwear, and a sweater. She looked at it, flushing to think someone had taken the time to figure out her sizes.

Even the bathroom was too clean, she noticed. The towels on the towel rack appeared to have their creases ironed into them. Similar to the bedroom, there was nothing on any of the flat surfaces, not even dust. Whoever lived here had nothing personal to show, no pieces of his personality for her to dissect before she faced him.

Unnerved by the idea of being somewhere she clearly didn't belong, she opened drawers until she found a pair of shears. She changed and took the shears, hiding them against her body as she approached the door.

With a deep breath, she opened the door, uncertain what horror she'd face next. The rest of the spacious apartment was decorated in an identical black and white color scheme as the bedroom. Black furniture, white carpets, black granite countertops in the kitchen, white walls and cabinets.

The apartment overlooked the beautiful blues and greens of the ocean. The sun lingered on the horizon, as if waiting for the closing clouds. Her gaze moved from the incredible view to the condo's owner, whose desk sat against the wall opposite her beside the windows. He wore headphones and spoke into a microphone, simultaneously responding to half a dozen chat windows open on this computer. He wore nothing but sweatpants, and his exposed upper back drew her attention.