His love life was something else. He was adored by most ladies. It was true that he’d get the usual odd look from the type ready to dismiss anything out of the ordinary, but for those who were rebellious or had a mean streak or simply were curious, he was the man. He was quite the charmer when he wanted to be. But he rarely got along with other guys. Billy Finch always thought himself superior to any other man. He thought himself superior to women too. In truth, he felt superior over the pope himself.

He was thinking these kinds of thoughts to himself as he stalked the streets of Camden. Stalking was a normal part of his job. Tonight, he was after someone in particular, someone who had evaded him for too long. He was out to get paid and make someone pay. After all, such was the nature of his business.

The snow had begun to melt throughout Camden. Listening intensely, he could hear the snowmelt running down the street and into the drains. It was what some people would call perfect weather. Billy didn’t think so. It may have been only late February, but spring was making its move, which made things both easier and harder for Billy. Not that Billy didn’t like a challenge. There were just other things he’d rather be doing right now. And this weather tonight was just making his life miserable.

On a good, clear winter’s night, it’s easy to stalk someone. In the silence that only comes from a cold, starry night, Billy could hear anything, like a wolf on the prowl. He could track his victims through the snow. He could hear their every quivering breath. He liked these kinds of nights. He liked the nights when he knew he was close to a victory and there was no chance of any surprises.

Tonight was not like that. It was clear, but not too cold. The air was muffled with warmth and the streets were barren. The only real noise was coming off of the bay, but the waters were quiet tonight. So was his prey; quiet. Too quiet. Billy paused on the street. Something was wrong. He could sense it. There was a tension in the air. He was close. He just couldn’t see them. So, he did something he had learned a lo ng time ago. Billy closed his eyes.

Taking in everything with his eyes closed, he listened to the night. There came nothing but the water running constantly down the drains. He took a deep breath. It hit him like a truck. The clear smell of something flowery. It reminded him of someone. A good someone.

“That can’t be you,” he mumbled under his breath.

“But it is,” a voice answered from directly in front of him.

Billy opened his eyes, but it was far too late. The knife was plunged into his chest, and he stumbled back, falling to his knees. He looked into the eyes of his attacker before they kicked him, and he fell face-first into the wet street in an ever-growing pool of his own blood. He stayed there, unmoving, watching as the world blurred and as the figure walked steadily away. There was no hope for Billy Finch. He was a dead man.