(300 words.)

Everything was a little sharper with the Void running through her body, and that was something that had its ups and downs.

It certainly made it much easier to do her work. She could hear a Watch patrol approaching from three streets away and be clear of the area before they even knew to look for her. Her aim was better than it had ever been, good enough to shoot a rat dead in the gutters below from her perch high up on the rooftops, even if her companions grumbled at her for showing off and wasting ammunition.

She could have done without the sense of smell, though. In time, she got used to the constant copper tang of blood that now clung to her, but Dunwall reeked on the best of days, and when the rains came and flooded the sewers or the winds shifted to drag across the rotting whale carcasses of Slaughterhouse Row, she could hardly walk the streets without retching.

But the tastes alone made even that worth it.

She had money, now, more than she had ever seen before in her life. She would go out into the city and kill a man, feel hot blood splatter across her skin, hear his last gurgling breath as he died, and then Daud would count out coins, clinking musically into her red-stained palms. She would take her share of the bounty to the markets and buy herself sweet, sticky apricot tarts, fresh fruits and meats, warm, buttery bread rolls, relishing in everything that had once been beyond her reach.

Not so long ago, she had considered it a blessing to find half a tin of potted whale meat thrown away with the trash. She could tolerate any amount of unpleasant sensations to never be that desperate again.