The running figure in the rain was panting heavily under the gaze of the pearly white full moon. In the blackness of the night, he felt more exposed than ever, like the universe shining brightly above him could see his whole future and, more mortifyingly, his past deeds.

He had been a youth full of anger and madness and hate when he had agreed to go under contract with his current employer. Now he was twenty-seven years of age, still running on nights like that one, paranoid of dreams and the dark, and with the same sticky liquid on his hands.

Wiping the blood from his hands on his scruffy jacket, the man turned a corner, flat-out running to give himself as much distance as he could from the house he had paid a visit. He didn't even know their names.

But that was what he dealt in, the No Names who in some way deserved death. He used to make up crimes for them in his head, like stealing and adultery or assault and lies. He couldn't even be arsed doing that now.

The man running from the small house in Spinner's End had a bloody knife stuck clumsily and dismissively into am inside pocket in his bedraggled black jacket.

He had just changed a seventeen year old girl's life forever and he had absolutely no idea.