Some mentions of blood and brief descriptions of death.
He killed the wrong person.
He made a mistake and now his target is gone, off his radar. He needs to find them again. He looks down at his hands, bloodied by the man he killed, and wipes them on his pants. He needs to get away.
But where the hell is he?
He doesn’t notice the rain until he shivers from the cold, raindrops dripping onto his nose from his hair. He realizes he’s been standing here for - he checks his watch - fifteen minutes, without moving, no idea of where he should go. He has a knack for directions, has a map in his head, but he hasn’t been here before, he’s only here because his target led him here. Of course, he could ask someone for directions, but he doesn’t speak to people - and he doubts that anyone would want to speak to him considering how he looks. And he can’t think clearly, not with the rain pattering on the ground around him, not with the thought of his missing target whirring in his head.
It’s confusing, and he’s shivering and he feels - he feels? What is he feeling? His heart rate is rising, it feels as though something is trying to force its way out of his throat. He doesn’t know how to analyze this, how to logically understand it. All he knows, all he ever knew, is the gun in his holster, pressing against his thigh, the sound of a gunshot, a knife piercing skin, the sound of a person taking their final breaths. He doesn’t know how to handle this - this feeling as if he is going to be sick.
He shouldn’t be feeling these things, he knows that much. His bosses would know what to do, how to fix him. But he doesn’t know how to get home. They should not have let him go without tracking him, then they could have found him, helped him. Now, loathe as he is to admit it, he is lost.
He lets out a shuddering breath and sits on the ground, leans against the wall nearest to him. There are few people walking past his lonely corner, sheltered from the rain by umbrellas, hurrying along to wherever they are going. No one notices him. No one ever does.
He looks at his dirty hands being rinsed by the rain, shaking - from the cold or these things he is feeling, he doesn’t know. A drop of water reaches his lips. It tastes salty, unlike the rain. That’s confusing, but his eyes are stinging so it must be tears. Why tears? He has seen people cry before, in fear or in grief from losing a loved one, after he killed them. Why is he crying?
A sob makes its way out of his throat, and he slaps his hand to his mouth. He shouldn’t - he shouldn’t - but he doesn’t know how to control his own body anymore. That’s a frightening thought, he realizes, and then realizes - this is what fear is like. And he is scared.
He is so scared.
He keeps his hand over his mouth as sobs wrack his body, warm tears mingling with the rainwater on his face. He cries and cries, because he doesn’t know what else to do, scared and confused about feeling scared. He thinks about what his bosses would say if any of them saw him like this - pathetic, they would say, control yourself, you’re better than this - and the thought of what they might do to him, to fix him again, makes him sob even harder. More than anything he wants to be fixed, to not feel again, but he doesn’t think he could handle that pain again, not when that’s what he wanted to escape. He can’t go back, not like this.
In his reverie, he only absently registers the footsteps coming closer, splashing in the rain-covered street. And for a moment, the rain stops.
“Are you all right?”