He panted as he sprinted up the stairs. Sunlight stung his eyes making him momentarily regret being in the dark, this would be the perfect opportunity for someone to attack him from the side of the doorway. As soon as his eyes adjusted he turned to the side in one swift motion, meaning to parry any attack. Thankfully no blow came, but he could distinctly hear footsteps coming down the hallway to the laundry room. He quickly ducked back into the cellar entrance as the sound of heavy boots grew nearer.

He had stopped panting but was breathing fast and loud. A blood curdling scream pierced the air and was stopped short by the sound of a blade puncturing skin. James tried to slow his breathing, but to no avail. He was scared. His formality, his stilted attitude, his sharp clean cut look, all of that was gone. A mop of hair, drenched with sweat perspires on to his forehead.

He was filled with a fear, a primal fear.

"Can I be a secret agent too? I promise I won't tell anyone that I am." This is what he had said to his father at the age of seven.

"Not yet, son. Not quite yet." He had said as he had gotten into his jet black car and drove off for the last time.

He had always referred to these trips as "a simple business trip", but James knew that that wasn't the whole picture. He remembered stumbling across a folder one day, reading it, and putting it down. His father had found him with the folder later and yelled at him, saying something about "sensitive information". He had always been very secretive about his work and his co-workers, though he had mentioned one name:

"Isaac Luther. Tell your mother to call him if anything happens." He had said.

James didn't know who this Isaac Luther was, but he told his mother to call him, and when she attempted to do so, she said that she couldn't talk to him.

Those memories were the few fragments he had of his early life, aside from his parents' names: Robert and Mary.

The footsteps grew louder as Bland was torn away from his train of thought. Another sound of blade piercing flesh filled the air, closer this time. James crept back in to the cellar, he was much too afraid to face this adversary head-on. He ran down the steps. He was going too fast, and as he fell forward down the stairs something cut through the air overhead, missing him by centimeters. As his body connected with a combination of concrete and wood he cried out in a burst of pain. He felt like throwing up, he couldn't assess the damage, nor did he care. He wanted to get off of the stairs. He wanted to get to solid ground. Footsteps pounded down the stairs. He was gaining on him. Bland rolled onto his back to see the person that aimed to end his short, precious life. A stench of blood amplified his nausea as his attacker came close enough to be seen in the dark.

The man held a long, sharp blade freshly stained with blood. A sliver of sunlight glinted off of him, revealing that his body was completely covered in knives. From his arms to his legs, seemingly reaching around to the back of his long, black trench coat. All of these knives were held in small straps, allowing easy access to these implements of death. On his head was a black mask, obscuring his face, it looked like a leather hood, one that concealed the mouth. But his eyes were covered by sunglasses, which glowed blood red, creating a faint, lurid light.

He walked closer to James Bland, and as he raised his knife to strike, the world seemed to go into slow motion. Everything sounded like it was underwater, and he made a decision. Despite the excruciating pain, he reached up to the dress pants, and tore away one of the many knives strapped there, ripping the fabric material in two. Poised to strike, James drove the knife into the leg of the pants. The man in the trench coat howled in pain and blood soaked James' hands.

He took one last look at his attacker before rolling to the side, missing the man's fall. As the nightmarish assassin fell, Bland stood up. He surprisingly had gotten rid of the nausea, and he didn't feel pain anymore.

He stepped forward with his left leg experimentally, his results being better than he had anticipated, as he felt no pain.

He stumbled tiredly over to the body, leg dragging over the concrete.

"You shouldn't have tried to kill me. Honestly, I wish I could've killed you quicker. "

"You didn't fight me this well when I killed your director." Said the masked man with the knife in his leg.