After I finished throwing up, I decided to go home.

I felt like I was walking through a dream. The rain had continued, but I was only dimly aware of it. All the sounds of the city were muffled beneath the downpour. Even when it soaked me through to the skin, I didn't notice. My feet were carrying me home. I just stared at the ground and didn't look back.

When I opened the door to our apartment, the smell of cigarette smoke hit me immediately. The first thing I wondered was why the smoke detector hadn't gone off. On almost any other day, I would've laughed at the thought. The smoke detector hasn't worked since we moved in.

But, due partially to the sobering effects of the morning's activities, (I tried to check the time, but the digital clock on top of the refrigerator was blinking. The power must have gone out.) I immediately realized that there was someone else in the apartment. Julie doesn't smoke. Her mother died at age fifty-seven after a long battle with lung cancer. That's the only reason I don't smoke, either. A few times, I tried to do it at the bar, but she always caught me when I leaned in to kiss her. Most of the losers at Ronnie's place smoked, so I usually brought at least a hint of the odor home on my jacket, but since I was never smart enough to buy a pack of gum, my breath always gave me away when I actually lit up.

I closed the door as quietly as I could, not realizing at the time that whoever was there had probably heard me coming down the hall.

I tried to relax and give myself an overview of the situation.

Fact 1: The door was unlocked. Whoever was there, they weren't scared of being found.

Fact 2: They weren't in the living room. Our furniture was very sparsely arranged, and the most convenient hiding spot-behind the couch-disappeared when we pushed the green-colored offense to the eyes back against the wall.

Fact 3: The bathroom door was wide open, and there was nobody inside.

Fact 4: The bedroom door was opened just wide enough for smoke to escape.

Fact 5: They were in the bedroom.

Julie.

This time, I was fully aware of my strength as I threw the door open.

The room was perfectly clean. All the books were sitting very neatly on their shelves. The lamp sitting on the bedside table still stood where it always had. And some magazines that I was sure had been at the end of the bed when I left were stacked neatly on the dresser. The only thing that seemed out of place was the tall, thin man sitting on my bed, smoking a cigarette.

"I know. I shouldn't." I must have looked confused, because he motioned at the hand that was holding the cigarette, as if that was the only facet of the scene I found surprising. "But I just can't help it. This job is so stressful."

His flat, uninterested voice jostled something in my memory, but I couldn't quite place it to a name.

"Not that it really matters if I poison myself." He stood up. “In the end, the result will be the same."

Slowly, he walked over to me, but he kept his head lowered. When he got within about three feet of me, he raised it and met my startled gaze with a look that in no way betrayed his thoughts.

I noticed that his eyes were a dark shade of blue.

Last night. The bar.

The realization jostled me out of my dazed state. I threw his hand off of me and ran over to where Julie was sleeping.

There was no blood. No gunshot wounds, no stabbings.. I checked for a pulse. First on her neck. Nothing. I threw the sheet off and checked for a pulse on her wrist. Nothing.

At first, I didn’t even notice the mark. It was on the inside of her arm, where her forearm began. A small, clean wound that was just wide enough to come from a hypodermic needle.

"I can't stand messes." His voice is still flat, and unsympathetic. He's done this before, I thought. Probably a hundred times. "So they let met do it in a much more civilized fashion."

That's when I realized that he had to die.

He straightened his suit jacket and turned around to leave. I yanked open the drawer of the bedside table and rummaged around, trying to get at something beneath all the catalogues and folders.

He was almost at the door. For a second, I almost panicked. Then I felt something cold.

I pulled my hand out and brought a pair of sharp, steel scissors with me.

The man in the suit didn't hear me come up behind him, or even bother to take his hand off the doorknob when I lunged at him. When I drove the sharp instrument into his neck, it seemed that he would simply reach around and pluck them right out, and they would be perfectly clean. But he didn't even try to grab them. He simply dropped to his knees, and hit his head against the door as he slumped over.

I stared down at him for a long time. The wound was just above his collar, so the blood ran down his back, beneath his shirt. It was almost as if he wasn't bleeding at all, as if he wasn't human.

Then, a knock at the door.

I couldn't move my arm to shut the lock, or open my mouth to ask who it was. They waited about ten seconds, knocked again, and the waited maybe five seconds before opening the door.

The body was knocked over, and it landed on it’s side, still blocking keeping the door from being fully opened. The visitors had to carefully step over him to get in.

I immediately recognized the first man. The fat man from the bar, who told me my first test would be to kill the man who had watched over me since I was born.

But following him was a man I did not recognize. He was tall and middle aged. He had dark green eyes and was wearing a pinstriped suit. These two details reminded me of the fat man's other companion at the bar, but this was not him. This man had a much more elegant sense about him, while the fat man's partners had both just seemed empty and devoid of any real purpose. He stepped carefully over the body, which he surveyed with mild interest, mostly focusing on the weapon itself.

"Do you mind if I have a seat?" He spoke with a tone that let me know he was going to sit down whether I answered or not. I chose to stay silent.

The fat Asian man looked at the body and snorted. He looked at me with a slight smirk, and patted me on the back. Snickering lightly, he made his way over to the couch and joined the older visitor.

I stood, frozen, still staring at the floor.

The taller man spoke. "You may be wondering why that man killed your wife." I couldn't tell, but I was willing to bet he didn't even bother pointing at the corpse. "He was a traitor."

"Traitor? He was a fucking rat, boss. He didn't even deserve a death as glorious as THIS." The Asian man was still speaking in his usual loud, boisterous voice. I couldn't decide if he was also drunk now, or whether the booze had no effect on his mannerisms last night.

"He had to be eliminated. And because of your very unique position at the moment when we made this decision, you were selected to carry out this task." His voice never changed in pitch, but it was mocking all the same, because of the uncaring way that he spoke. "You were very lucky."

He went on. "Your wife is dead, Mr. Keeler. Nothing will change that. Now, you have two options at this point. You may decide to reject the job offer that has recently been placed before you, and we can walk out of this room right now. Of course, you must remember, if you choose this option, we will make sure that the body lying above the bar on the corner of 8th and Johnston is tied to you. And make no mistake, Mr. Keeler, you will go to jail for the rest of your life.

"Or, you can come work for me. Ronnie's body, along with Julie's and her murderer's will be properly disposed of, and you won't get so much as a phone call from the police. You'll be taken care of. You'll be able to survive, and your standard of living will increase, at that.

"While the final decision is ultimately yours, I would strongly recommend you choose the latter."

I clenched my eyes shut, to stop the tears that wouldn't come.

Ronnie. My best friend. Julie. My wife. Yesterday, they were all I had to live for. One of them was dead because a fat man in an expensive suit wanted me to prove my devotion to keeping Julie and myself alive. The other one was dead because that was the way the tall man sitting behind me wanted it.

I thought about the dead man in front of me. We had both been used as pawns. He was meant to push me over the edge, and I was meant to eliminate him. But I felt no remorse. He had to die, that was simply the way things were.

Some lives have to be sacrificed for the greater good.

I turned and smiled at the men sitting behind me.

"When do I start?"