Disclaimer (since it seems to be the norm): I own practically nothing, least of all anything that belong to someone else, in particular Ubisoft, and all that jazz.

A/N: This is my first try, so don't hesitate to review, let me know what you think. Be honest (but gentle please). I apologize in advance for any possible awkward structure or spelling mistake. Do let me know if something's off.

The slow thumping of his own heartbeat fills his ears in this darkest of night, heavy with silence. Above him, the sky is a void not even the moon softens. A blessing. The darkness had shrouded his arrival, and it now promises him an advantage over his target.

This is his city. His world. Each alley is a lover to him, one he has explored thoroughly, in great length, until no curve, no cavity held any more secrets. Each has been shown proper attention, dedication, in turn, until he could navigate them practically blindfolded. But he never lingers beyond what is necessary.

Deceptively still, he crouches in the alley, waiting. His eyes dance from the alley's entrance to the roofs above, barely outlined, back to the entrance. Each breath measured, silent, refusing to disturb the stillness surrounding him, lest it betrayed his presence.

A crease forms on the man's forehead as he strains his hearing, seeking a sign of his approaching target. A heartbeat. Another. The silence stretches into discomfort, barely perceived , all senses focusing on the imminent arrival. Any second now, the sound of shuffling feet will violate the perfect night.

A pawn. The man he eagerly awaits is small stuff. A grain of sand in a desert of evil. A merchant, lowly, but ambitious. Perilously so. Determined to make a name for himself, he has unknowingly bitten off much more than was reasonable to chew. A deal with those whose soul is forever marred with the blood of innocents, and the injustice and hatred they spread like the vermin they are. Their goals cannot be allowed to advance. One fateful decision on the merchant's part; profitable, too, from what he's found out. But one he will not get to benefit from. That particular grain of sand has the misfortune of finding itself in a most irritating place.

Tonight, the merchant's ambition will cost him his life.

The assassin shifts subtly as the telltale sound reaches him. A smirk, invisible in the darkness. The target carries himself in the fashion typical of those who try to move with stealth, and fail miserably. So focused is he on threading lightly, he forgets all else. The assassin can imagine clearly the perspiration forming on his forehead, the mouth opened to let in ragged, terrified breaths.

The streets are less than safe at night.

And the merchant works for powerful people. Powerful people have powerful enemies.

His eyes trained on the alley's entrance, the assassin awaits a shadow on shadows, a slightly deeper pool of darkness obscuring what he can now make out from what little starlight penetrates the back streets.

Muscle tensed, another shift in stance: the assassin poises himself to leap. The blood surges in his veins in anticipation, deafening.

A move in the darkness, barely visible, and the target is in sight. A few more steps.

The assassin mentally coaxes the skittish merchant closer. His trip home almost at an end.

All calculations have been made. The waiting is over. His mind blank, the assassin lets instinct take over the next few, precious seconds.

The leap is almost painful, but the move is fluid despite the numbness that was starting to creep up his bent legs. Suspended for the briefest of moments, the assassin flicks his finger, bringing forth the faithful hidden blade with barely a sound. Before the merchant can even register the presence of a tangible danger, the blade is sunk into the soft flesh of his neck, severing the artery, leaving no room for compromise.

The assassin lands silently as his blade strikes, the graceful move belying the violence of his actions. Firmly, he holds the blade in place for a few heartbeats, waiting for death's grip to tighten on the merchant before gently laying him on the ground with a few whispered words of prayer, carefully extracting the blade.

He lets out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding, remaining still, searching for sounds, a sign he might not have been as silent as he'd been trained for, but the night gave him nothing of the sort. Satisfied this part of his mission has been fulfilled, the assassin wipes his blade on an inner fold of his robes before retracting it.

With one last look at the dead merchant, he leaps again, reaching a nearby roof with a few silent steps and disappearing, as if he'd not been there in the first place.