Words Unsaid

It was the early hours of the morning, and the world was silent.

Silent, too, were the muted footsteps of the assassins who crept through the house. breathing softer than a whisper.

The one in the lead paused a moment to give an extremely loud eye-roll, more expressive than the gustiest sigh, followed by a pointed flick of her eyelashes at the obstacle ahead. Really, did anyone need this many bead curtains? Even when one wasn't guarding against death in the night, they were nothing more than an easily breakable nuisance!

The clear message was met by a knowing smile and very empathic extended moment of eye contact, their companion used to the silent commentary. I know, but everyone has their foibles, and at least this one is useful and doesn't break any ethics of human decency. Remember the shrunken head collector?

The first assassin considered, with a careful tilt of her head, that you might have worked with someone a bit too exclusively when you became capable of holding such detailed conversations without saying a word. The second assassin stuck out their tongue, which was a form of communication universal enough that even perfect strangers tended to understand it.

The first assassin smiled in understanding and gently parted the beads, moving slowly enough that the plastic orbs - honestly, at least glass ones made a decent alarm system! - made no sound to disturb the occupant of the house. The bead curtains only compounded the overall tackiness of the decor. Their employer had been wise to specify that the death was to look like an accident; she was severely tempted to stab them a few extra times on pure principle.

A slow, deliberate smile from her companion. Don't tell me you're thinking of offering a discount?

She wrinkled her nose. I desperately want to murder whoever paid actual money to live like this, but no. We already did the negotiations, and more paperwork means paying extra, not a discount.

They grinned, broad and full of teeth. Agreed.

Finally, they reached the bedroom, and the second assassin took their place at the head of the bed, ready to stifle any noise or movement if their victim woke, while the first prepared a large syringe full of air. Despite the size of the murder weapon, the needle was the finest medical grade available, designed to cause no more than a brief pinprick of pain, if that.

Oxygen injected between the toes would mimic a heart attack in less than a minute, and unless the coroner was actively looking for injection wounds, the death would seem perfectly natural, particularly given the victim’s overall diet and the items they planned to leave in the kitchen on the way out.

After all, if you hear hoofbeats, the sound might belong to a zebra, but unless you see black and white stripes, the majority of people will assume the more likely option of it being a horse.

The second assassin raised the hand that didn't hold the murder weapon, lowering their fingers one at a time to count down from three, the depressed the syringe.

The victim stirred, but didn't wake. They moved out of immediate sight and stayed until their heart stopped, just in case, then left as silently as they had come, to finish planting evidence.

Another job well done, and completed without a single word being spoken aloud.

Who ever said that working on commission wasn't profitable?

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