Am I dead?
The question flickered through her mind as her eyes widened in fear. But her consciousness soon began to fade, and her vision darkened completely.
Until her final breath, she never understood why she had died—or why the artifact she believed would force Nolan to keep his word had failed to work.
That's disgusting, Nolan muttered, shaking his head slightly.
He stood and wiped the tip of his blood-soaked index finger—stained, of course, with the woman's blood.
Although it was only on the edge of his nail, he still felt repulsed by being touched by the blood of someone like her.
The worst kind of people, in his eyes, were those who killed others for something as empty as money.
Admittedly, some assassins were driven by circumstances—crushing debt or desperation.
But there were others who killed for profit and pleasure.
Judging by how professional she had been, she clearly belonged to the latter group.
