The sun broke above the horizon long before Francisco's eyes slid open. In all actuality, it was about halfway through the Western sky when his alarm went off. Sun-drenched silken sheets rustled with the abruptness only a startled awakening could bring as he flailed for the clock, trying as he did whenever it went off to reach it for a good five minutes... Before conceding to the harsh reality in which his dresser stood a good ten feet from his bed.

That ritual accomplished, he moved for the bathroom posthaste. There, his almost frighteningly regimented 17 minutes of shower and hygienic practices went down without problem or issue.

Francisco stood for about three minutes in front of his mirror before dressing, checking himself for any marks he may have gotten from the previous evenings appointments. Some people were just too physically responsive, and he couldn't have it leaving him marred.

His eyes stopped on the thin white line across his cheek for a moment or two longer than necessary, but something had held him there. Some need to acknowledge it. A single bronze finger traced along its length. I didn't hurt anymore, but it did almost tickle a bit.

Having donned a rather delicate-looking suit in a darker shade of green, with a fairly daring addition of pinstripes, he came to stand before the mirror again. All was in place, save shoes.

He was a picture of class and masculinity.

He was an artist.

He was a murderer.

He was a testament to the sins of his forefathers.

He was Francisco Bohannon, and his heart was harder than those of the many.

His darkest pair of shoes were slipped on and tied, and he headed out the door to end the lives of six men for nothing more than a few names. This was his life, his art, and his purpose.

Wasn't it?