The Hit

Heat. The smell of sweat, blood, and excrement lent the atmosphere of the games an immediacy that could not be washed away. The assassin glided through the crowd searching for his prey. The audience cheered as desperate men fought for their lives.

He spotted his target. He moved in; a tiger in human form weaving through the mob, glistening dagger in hand, the blade glinting in the sunlight. The mark had time to see it and open his mouth in silent protest before it struck home. A cheer swelled as a gladiator fell to the sand. The assassin was gone.


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