In the School of Assassins

Prelude

3 Years Ago...

His death was long coming. Not that she had waited for him to die, or even wished it upon him. Though, given the countless enemies he had made along his crooked, winding pathway of life, Harvey Dean Reid definitely had it coming.

Her father would have bestowed upon her one of his more notorious expressions - a hard glint in his eye and a slight click of distaste upon his tongue - should he somehow arise from 6 feet under and viewed for himself the state she was in. But resurrection seemed a bit out of his reach, even for Mr Reid.

She had long since gave up on rubbing her eyes or discretely blinking her tears away. Instead, she allowed them to fall freely for the first time in forever.

Crying is for the weak, or for those who don't know better. You've been taught better than this, Eve. She envisioned her father frowning, and even more tears fell. Over the years, she had been taught to mask all emotions, to only reveal what would benefit herself. Play the long game. But the death of her father was too raw, too recent, and it knocked against her hollow ribs with a numbing pain that sought captivity of her limbs. The funeral service went by all too quick, and through her clouded vision, she could only make out foggy figures of people getting out of their seats, all too eager to leave the scent of death and loss behind. It was a small town, and everyone had been invited to the funeral. But, even with the supposed comfort of her neighbours and her school peers, she still felt distant. No one had a strong emotional connection with her and her father - he hadn't allowed them too. She suddenly wished he had been a bit more amiable in his life. Then she laughed softly to herself, the sound foreign in her throat. God forbid he allowed even the flicker of a smile through his mask. Even the most she had gotten was a small nod of approval.

She sighed, and closed her eyes. She didn't want to leave just yet. Leaving meant facing reality - moving on.

When she finally opened them, her eyes were still glazed over, though any remnants of tears had vanished without a trace. Her face was back to its usual impassive self as she swiftly pushed herself off of the wall. Walking briskly towards the open doors into the garden, her posture impeccably straight as always, she made her way past any wandering eyes towards the ivy walls. She walked softly, so that no one could hear her, and opted for the shadowed pathway beneath the willow tree. She quickly glanced behind her, scanning her periphery for any keen onlookers. All clear. A hand reached down to her heels before she straightened, a dagger resting gently inside her hand. It had a thicker handle than she usually opted for, and the mahogany was carved a little too long for her hands. Still, her fingers tightened slightly around it, urging herself to become accustomed to the weapon. Wield your instruments as if they are your second skin, Eve, no matter what it may be. Though her stomach tightened, and her throat felt constricted, none of that showed. She carefully brought the dagger to the vines in front of her, and etched them away, until a small cavity was revealed that gave her foot enough support for her to heave herself up. Almost effortlessly, with only a small grunt, she hoisted herself up before dropping to the other side - a dingy pathway that only hosted a sole, flickering lamppost. She padded along the stone wall to the opposite side, until the darkness consumed her.

No one had noticed her departure, let alone her arrival. No one but a masked figure in the corner, their narrowed eyes following her every move.