In a dusty, damp prison cell, where the stale smell of old sweat and rusted metal clings to the air, Luke, sitting on the stone-cold floor, stares blankly at the grey walls.
Both loud and soft snores from adjacent cells linger like an ambient tone. Taking a deep breath, Luke lets out an annoyed sigh and whispers, "O' so it ends."
Quiet footsteps approach, followed by the clinking of keys. "Good evening," a man in prison guard attire stands in front of Luke's cell while nonchalantly sifting through a ring of keys. Luke continues to stare at the wall in silence.
With a casual smirk, the guard finds the right key and opens the lock. Entering the cell, the guard surveys the area. "How's this place been treating you?"
He takes out his baton and uses it to push away the pillow on the rack. "Not much of a sleeper are you."
Luke starts staring at his hands, his grey eyes silently observing as if looking for something that will magically appear.
The guard lets out a chuckle. "Guess you're not much of a talker either."
The guard walks in front of Luke and crouches down, trying to make eye contact. "Your resume is very impressive. This might be surprising to hear, but I'm your biggest fan. Four thousand, seven hundred and thirty-eight assassinations. Caught because you turned yourself in. May I ask why?"
Luke finally looked up and stared at the guard for a few seconds before shifting his attention back to his hands.
With a resigned sigh, the guard stands up and walks towards the cell door, then stops.
Without turning around, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, then exhales a cloud of smoke.
"Six years ago, you killed a child trafficker in Mexico. His brother would like me to send you his regards."
The guard exits the cell, locks it, and walks away, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.
Lifting his head, Luke stares at his pillow. Gently resting there is a grenade whose handle is being held by two slightly broken rubber bands.
"For a killer, you sure talk a lot."
With a snap, both rubber bands break simultaneously.
Luke goes back to staring at his hands, and with a cold yet neutral tone, he counts.
"5"
The guard tosses his cigarette on the damp grass and kicks a patch of dirt on top of it.
"4"
Feeling something trickling down his neck, the guard wipes his neck with his hand, then looks down at his hand.
"3"
Staring back at him was smeared blood.
"2"
"When did he..." The guard's gaze begins to become blurry. He feels like the world is starting to rotate.
"1"
BOOM
The guard falls onto the ground, eyes wide open. Slowly, he begins to exhale more than he inhales.