It feels...strange, being alone in the city. He's there without family and his friends have just left him after moving the few possessions he owns to a tiny apartment. Now he sits on a lumpy couch and stares at a blank piece of paper in the typewriter wondering if this was really the right choice to make.
--
He sets his index fingers to the keys, laboriously punching out a word, then two, then three. It's apparent that English is not his first language, but his stilted grammar lends a weight of honesty to his writing. Sunlight is just beginning to streak its way through the blinds of the apartment when he leans back in his chair, his work completed. He mops his sweat-soaked brow with a handkerchief and scans the contents of the page. "Dear Sophia," it begins.
--
"Dear Sophia,
I miss you. Life is hard here, but I would not have it any other way. When I can, I will send for you and Mama and the little ones.
I have made friends here. There is a community here of other writers and they have offered to help me find a job. I can only hope that it will give enough money.
Sophia, you would love it here. No, you WILL love it here. It is bigger than the village, much bigger, but it feels tighter. More people. I know how you love people. They would love you. Adore you, just as your other brothers and I do. The others cannot wait to meet you. There is nothing this city does not have, I am sure of it.
Send my regards to Emil. I am pleasantly awaiting his departure."
--
The man releases the paper from the typewriter, folds it quickly, and places it on his desk atop a neat stack of similar papers. He rises and crosses the short distance to his bed. Dust scatters around him as he pulls a steel box from under the bed frame. He gives the box a shake, hears the reassuring clash of metal on metal, and smiles. "Soon," he whispers, "but not today." He fingers the edges of the box lovingly before giving the padlock a sharp pull. It's locked tight. Satisfied, he returns the box to its hiding place and begins his usual morning routine.
--
He lights the first cigarette of the day and puts the kettle on. As he waits for it to start boiling, he hangs by the window. Out in the city under him, people are already rushing to work at various businesses and stores, and children are waiting for the bus to bring them to school. It's such a different world from what he's used to that at some points he wonders if this is even the same world. Even still, he smiles at the bustle and goes to turn the heat off from the kettle when it starts whistling.
--
When the whistling stops, he raises the kettle's nozzle to his lips and swallows its contents in several loud gulps. Steam rises from his lips, though he makes no visible reaction to the extremely high temperature of the beverage. He opens the fridge and removes a carton of eggs from the door. He takes an egg between his thumb and forefinger, examining it for a few moments before popping it into his mouth. His jaw works in a sharp up and down motion, crunching the egg between his back teeth. With his meal now complete, he pulls out his pocket watch and frowns at the time. He's going to be late.

Our lone protagonist, walking out of his lowlit spartan apartment, arrives at the snowy steps of his neighborhood, paying no attention to any other signs of life surrounding him. He commences his walking, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, his fedora angled downwards to prevent any accidental eye-contact, and pretending that the icy temperatures and bitter winds had any degree of effect on him; after all, he didn't want to draw attention to himself. With every breath, the warm, wispy fog which came out of his mouth only reminds him of his cravings for another cigarette, much needed for the new contract given to him by his mysterious employer wasn't exactly a job that can be pulled off in just a single day's work. His hand tightens around the handle of his SIG P226; he looks up. He's arrived at an unoccupied, park vehicle. Nobody around as witnesses. Perfect. He reaches into his other pocket and takes out his crowbar.