Carefully he cleaned his blade. Having no blood of his own, he allowed the blood of others to build him up. Sometimes it trickled. Other times it rushed. Sometimes it just dropped with a horrible irony into limpid pools. It made his tears, though he had no tears to shed. Killers of his kind have no regret. Besides, his eyes were getting hungry. He could remember it when he stilled himself, the hunger that had once driven him mad, the taste of metal mixed with mint. His tongue recalled its viscosity, something that the dream of blood would never have.