Not for the first time that week, Nathan Bough was skulking in a woman's bedroom - but this time it was different. His target today was none other than Bridget Moriarty, widow and heiress to the Moriarty fortune. The former had of course been merely a hunt and kill, a quick job and it was over, just to sate his hunger. The poor girl had hardly deserved it, being a young club-goer she should have been out enjoying her life, but sadly, her empty shell now danced with the creatures of the deep. Caught in reverie for the merest moment, Nate inhaled the scent of the ocean through the open window. Such fond memories.

Only a few feet away, Bridget Moriarty sat half between nightwear and half formal. Her upturned face was directed towards her well-lit mirror, painting her face with the greatest of care. For a brief few seconds Nathan was reminded of his own mother; he would sit in her bedroom peeking as she dolled herself up - of course she would do it to hide the bruises, and he was sure that Bridget was doing nothing of the sort. He shifted his feet, boots dropping tiny flecks of sand into the elaborate carpet as he did so. There was something he loathed about women who dressed up this way (even more so than he already despised the fairer sex), but for now, he'd have to put that aside and focus on the master plan.

After waiting what seemed like hours for the woman to dress, he pulled aside the room screen - mercifully it had been unlit where he sat - and strolled towards her. His switchblade was tossed in the air, deftly caught a moment later before repeating the motion. "Bridget Moriarty, nice to make your acquaintance." The man spoke slowly, allowing his words to creep up on the woman in a way that he had been unable; unfortunately the addition of the mirror meant that the moment he moved the screen, he was directly in view.