She is the finest assassin in the world, but she has never touched a gun, or even a blade in anger. She prepares her weapons with care – a cheap set of chalk pastels, primed with a few drops of expensively-obtained blood.

She sets up a few hundred yards outside the apartment the president has been given for his stay before the sun rises. The bodyguards never glance twice at the nondescript street artist as the exquisitely-detailed portrait takes shape, and do not even recall her packing up and leaving as the first raindrops begin to fall.

When the maid knocks the president’s bedroom door with his morning coffee, the raindrops are spattering steadily against the windows, and the president is already cooling in his bed.

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