Knife went in. Next knife also went in. A look of horror spread out on the young dwarven man’s face, realizing in a single moment that his life was coming to an end after nothing in particular.

The masked man in front of him did not laugh. He did not speak, or gloat, or explain why he had just plunged these weapons of destruction into his body. Instead, he just looked and watched and continued to stab.

The young dwarven man died. His blood pooled out on the concrete, and his limbs splayed out like a neglected doll’s. When the scene had settled, the masked man bent down, removed his knives, and wiped the blood off on his cloak. Messy, but he owned many spares.

Call him Dimples.

A tall man, about seven feet. Matted, black hair. His race was unclear; the pointed ears were the only real hint he allowed. For everything else, he covered. His face, most especially. At all times, he had on the same smiling mask, stolen from a sculpture in the theater district.

The mask was what tied it all together. It had seen wear and tear, but it had been with him since the beginning. Since his very first murder, all the way to the latest. He had repaired it all himself, and over time it had faded from its vibrant white to a chalky gray. The smile still remained.

And the smile was where the name came from. The dimples on his mask became the Dimples in his name. The newspapers gave it to him. First, the Sunwell Herald. Contributing Editor, Xoxas Julo, a naga with a real knack for words. Dimples thanked the man in person just before separating his head from his torso.

For a while, Dimples did not accept the name he had been given, but over time he came to appreciate it.

It was not every day that he decided to don the clothes and find new prey. It was more like a hobby. Helped him get in touch with his basal nature, the hardened edge of his soft modern body. A bit off the side from his real job in Portside. He loaded cargo at the docks, just like a lot of men his size, his age. Spoke little there, just as here. Nobody minded him; he got his work done well and quick. It paid for a nice apartment in Uptown, far from prying eyes. But it paid less these days, with the embargoes from the Toran Islands and the unionists kicking up a storm. With rising rent from outlanders coming to Fleettwixt and imposing their culture on everyone.

So, sometimes, Dimples went out looking for more. More bodies, and more wallets inside of them. Mixing pleasure and business.

His only rule: He never killed near his home. Everything else was fair.

Tonight, he wandered around the small neighborhood of Blankenville, near Barrier University. Centuries ago, it was home to a sacred shrine for the sun elves. Today, it was home to a sizable population of humans, who brought with them all manner of revelry and base entertainment. The lights in a nearby bar flashed, and the music sang out. He stood in the alleyway across from it, just behind a garbage bin. All he had to do was wait for an interesting person to emerge.

A human couple, holding hands and whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears, were the first to spark any level of interest. Two middle aged men who seemed so absorbed in each other that they would not even notice the giant man walking up to them and slitting their throats. Their infatuation would become a slurry of blood and guts.

But they lacked a certain something that Dimples sought, and he let them return home unheeded, and alive.

Then an orcish woman emerged, alone, hands in her pockets, head drooped. It was interesting to see an orc all the way out in Blankenville. Even more interesting to see one so upset. Clearly, she had come here to this club with a specific goal in mind, and she did not achieve it. Having a good time with a lover. Finding a new lover. Bonding with work friends.

It did not matter much to Dimples, except that he had decided on his newest target.

She sulked away from the bar, took the way home that crossed through a public park. One without mana lights, without passersby. Dimples was right behind the entire time. She sang drunkenly, loudly, some depressing croon about a woman who had lost it all to a seafaring man. Could not keep a pitch to save her life.

A creeping sensation must have crawled up her spine, because she stopped walking and looked around. Left, right, left again, then back. They often did that. But they rarely looked long enough to actually see anything. She certainly did not, or else she would have seen him.

He advanced towards her—

Crack.

He stepped on a branch by a tree, and the orcish woman jumped. She saw him, walked backwards, and then ran away.

Runners. Everyone thought they could run until they met Dimples. Then they learned they could not.

He threw a knife that plunged directly into her back. She slowed, then faltered, then turned around in a daze just as Dimples had caught up to her. She screamed at the top of her lungs, but little did she know, no one around would respond. No one ever did respond to fevered screams. Either it was teens, drunks, or a situation they could not resolve themselves, so they left it to someone else to deal with.

The orc slammed her fists into Dimples’s chest. He did not budge, but he respected the power of her attacks. She had trained somewhere, at some point. She dodged his second knife and took it from his hands before he could stab her through the breastplate.

Dimples liked this. An energetic target, with her own history, her own hobbies, her own fears. She grasped at all of that with every bit of her soul, unwilling to let him extinguish it. She brandished the knife, even with another stuck in her back and gushing out blood. She wobbled, then stayed steady and prepared to strike.

But she did not know that Dimples had more than weapons. He raised his hands and reached out at her. Her whole body crunched in and she dropped the knife from the sheer pain.

Dimples knew the art of force magic, the ability to manipulate and control the waves of gravity and the objects that interacted with it. His soul was weak, they told him. His knowledge was limited, he found. But, when combined with his strength and size, he had no need for powerful magic. This was enough.

Paralyzed. The orcish woman screamed and screamed, and no one came, and all she could see was Dimples’s smiling mask staring down at her, and her throat seizing up as force magic literally crushed her windpipes. The red cloak grabbed her body and stabbed again and again at her back until a whole gap opened up.

“Hello there,” a voice said suddenly. Not from the orc, but from the bench beside her.

Dimples dropped his weapons and turned to face the voice. It was Castien Brielwa, standing on the bench with a pleasant smile.

“I see you’re at work,” he said. “But how about we talk?”

Dimples peered at the man, this very interesting man. He was unkillable, with far too much power at his disposal and no desire to share his secrets. But every time Dimples saw him, he saw only the perfect target.

“I see you’re in one of these moods again.” Castien hopped down from the bench and set his feet on ground level. He stepped over the orcish woman’s body and came close to him. “I’ve got another job for you, Dimples. You’re going to like it.”

Dimples did not move, did not allow his body to make any motion that would betray an emotion. He took in Castien’s words with resolution and open ears.

“There is an interloper,” Castien explained. “A woman with powers I cannot explain. I do not know where she comes from or who she is working for, and that blindness has cost me dearly. I suspect she might be the same individual who’s been plaguing the countryside as of late, destroying our mage enforcers everywhere she goes. And now she’s in Fleettwixt. She has already destroyed one of my synth facilities, and that will set back profits by at least...” He stopped and licked his lips. “That is not of your concern. What you should know is I want her disposed of. Eviscerated. Strung up for the world to see. Hire as much help as you like. I’ll cover the bill.”

An interloper with a mystery surrounding her. A spark of interest.

“You’ll be paid handsomely, of course,” Castien said. “In money, and, well... You know I have many employees under me. I’ll make sure some of the more hapless ones stumble your way from time to time.” He extended his hand and raised an eyebrow. “How about it?”

Dimples shook his hand.

“Just remember, I cannot coordinate with you in any open terms. I am forced to use my discretion for a great many things my bosses do not exactly know about. And this is one of these things. So I trust in you to get the job done and not make a mess of it. Or rather, please make a very large mess.”

Castien stepped around Dimples, as if sizing him up for his capabilities.

“You know, your little orc lady’s a real go-getter,” he told him. “Look at her go.”

Dimples looked down and saw the orcish woman, far away from the spot he left her, having crawled all the way into the grass, leaving a trail of blood behind like a red sea snail.

“You ought to finish her before she escapes.” Castien winked and then snapped. Suddenly, he disappeared.

Dimples stared at the bench for a while longer, imagining the interloper and what it might feel like to wrap his hands around her neck.

The orc had made it all the way to the nearest tree by the time he decided to finish her off. A commendable effort, but in the end not good enough. Perhaps this new foe might prove an even greater thrill. His interest had been thoroughly piqued.