Stalking silently along rooftops.
Unseen and unheard,
Save for the soft jingle of weapons at his waist.
Carrying a pure white feather
That waits to be stained red,
With what is told to be justice.

Silently, carefully, he disposes of guards.
His hidden blade runs through their backs,
Before they can sound an alarm.

Sneaking into the building,
Undetected, but anticipated.
Crawling along rafters,
Closer, closer, to the target.

Finally, soaring down for a final blow.
Guards inside, protest to no avail.
Poised with a perfect jump,
He forces his hidden blade
Through his target’s throat.

A final confession,
Of what they’ve done wrong.
An announcement of no regrets.
The feather, stained red along his wounded neck.

“Nothing is true, everything is permitted.”