Part One: First Blood
"It's nothing." Paul said, "It's a quick business adjustment." A pause "Nothing."
"Neither is this" the man picked up the steak knife, with a tight grip, he pounded it through the flesh of Paul's hand.
Shock at first. Paul winced. The man was blank. The napkin tainted with blood, as Paul's hand leaked.
"You f*ck." The man was not rageful, rather, deliberate.
White wine was tossed across the table, cheap chardonnay covered Paul, his hand still stabbed into the wooden table.
"It's not business Paul."
The man took his glass, and shattered it on Paul's face. Shard's ran from his forehead to his chin, some embedded, some falling off. His nose bled, his eyes blind, his cheeks cut and his body filled with warmth.
The man ripped the knife from Paul's hand, and forced it into his neck. Gurgle, gasp, a struggle for breath. All indistinguishable. It spurted. The fluid was messy, flowing down his suit like biological tears. Red, redder, almost dead, but his eyes still turned.
The knife had been from hand to throat, and now from throat it went to Paul's eye. The man took the blade, the metal stained with Paul, and forced it into his left eye.
There was a sound. Not a moan or a scream, but something in between. His head jerked, in this final moment of resistance, the blade plunged on through. Scraping on bones, squishing on tissue, but as intended ending life.
The man got up. Walked out. One job completed, more to be done. The system needed to be washed, and without any water, the man bathed it in blood.