It was John's apartment again. Midday. He'd run back straight from the warehouse after killing the Master Templar and now lay on his bed, hands behind his head, legs crossed, smiling.
"The head of the Templars of Son of York is dead now. There's no one left to control the rest of the Templars in the city. As planned the day I arrived. I'll destroy the four Templar towers. After that my promise will be fulfilled and I'll be rid of this burden…"
A quick doubt slid in. Wasn't killing that man too easy? He had tracked him down and shot him when he was off guard and unarmed, but it still felt wrong. He scratched his head and crossed his legs. A flash came — him killing Mark.
When I killed that templar, he thought, I sort of…unclicked. I turned off my sanity. I was laughing and stabbing him multiple times. I felt the same strange thing I felt when I killed Marcus. It wasn't only the will to kill — there was something else. An overwhelming sense of pleasure. I was actually happy as each stab filled my hands with blood.
Now, thinking back, was it really pleasure? Or just straight violence? My father never said anything about this cruel side of assassins. Or maybe…maybe it's just me.
Another memory hit: snow everywhere. The orphanage where John had been sent after he became an orphan. In the yard there was a small hill and a single tree. The ground was white and empty — no children.
He snapped back. His eyes were shaking and blurry. "Damn it, I should better be going. The towers won't wait." He got up, pulled his hood on, and walked out.
The streets were less busy that day — calm, a few passersby, not a crowd. At his building entrance he pulled out his map tablet and scrolled to the Templar tower on the western-southern corner. That would be his first target. He had no plan to destroy it yet. For now he just walked toward it.
As he kept walking a café at the corner stopped him. White tables, chairs, umbrellas. His stomach gurgled — he realized how little he'd eaten. He sat under a red umbrella as a breeze made it turn slowly.
An old man with a white mustache and an apron came over. "What may I get you, sir?"
John took off his hood, showing the scar on his cheek. "Something for a man who hasn't eaten in three days," he said.
The man's eyes widened. "Oh my! You must be starving. I'll make you my signature 'trail mix' — salmon, peanuts, potatoes, eggs, and three portions of peanut butter on the side. You'll like it."
John thought, Trail mix? Won't that ruin my stomach? Then he smiled. He hadn't eaten in three days and he was ready for the fight. Assassin blood, he remembered, his father fasting for five days sometimes.
He looked at the cars, at people walking, smiling. Their smiles faded his own. These were the same citizens who'd led the big protest, and now they were carrying on with their lives. Don't they realize they're being caged by the Templars? he thought. Thankfully I killed their head. Now I'll kill the rest.
His food arrived. "Good appetite, sir," the cook said, and left with a smile.
The plate matched the description. John bit the salmon. The taste was unexpectedly good. He ate fast, relieved. When the plate was empty he called the old man over.
"How was it, sir?" the cook asked.
"Amazing," John said. Then he asked the price.
The man's tone rose with pride. "It's usually expensive because of the ingredients!" he said loudly, almost as if bragging. Then his shoulders slumped, voice softening. "But…people don't want meals like this anymore. They prefer fast junk now. It's rare for anyone to order this…these days." A pause, then his face brightened again, eyes sparkling. "But since you're the first in years, I'll give you a discount — thirty-five bucks!"
John pulled out forty dollars, handed it over, and smiled. "Thanks for the food" and left without saying anything else.
The man stood, mouth open, eyes wet. "Thank you," he whispered.
John pulled his hood back up. Full and ready, he set off again. "Let's destroy that tower once and for all," he said under his breath.