Heart of an Assassin
You try to shake off the feeling of dread. You've been spending too long out in the heat. Someone wouldn't be burning your house. Why would they? Your family has done nothing to deserve something like that. You have always tried to be good people, to live your lives as best as you can.
You round a corner, and almost bump into someone. You step back, stuttering an apology which dies on your lips.
Facing you is a young man, probably just past his teens. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and his brown eyes are flat and emotionless. But it's not his eyes that hold your attention, nor even the weapons he carries - a katana and a dagger.
It is the scar that runs down his right cheek, made by a sharp blade.
An assassin!
You only have a split second to take in his appearance before the man takes one look at you, and then turns and races off.
Your heart pounds violently in your chest, and the basket drops from your nerveless fingers. Ignoring it, you start running in the direction of your house.
You round a corner, and almost bump into someone. You step back, stuttering an apology which dies on your lips.
Facing you is a young man, probably just past his teens. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and his brown eyes are flat and emotionless. But it's not his eyes that hold your attention, nor even the weapons he carries - a katana and a dagger.
It is the scar that runs down his right cheek, made by a sharp blade.
An assassin!
You only have a split second to take in his appearance before the man takes one look at you, and then turns and races off.
Your heart pounds violently in your chest, and the basket drops from your nerveless fingers. Ignoring it, you start running in the direction of your house.