He turned the letter opener over and let the water run down the other side of the blade. He rubbed a stubborn smudge with his thumb. TBC. The initials were faintly etched in script. He wondered what they stood for.

He walked back into the room holding the still-wet letter opener in his hand. She was still laying on the chez where she’d been when he’d come in. Still unconscious. He wondered what they’d done to her. He’d looked her over for traumas. Blows to the head. He’d found nothing. Nothing obvious, anyway. He was worried about drugs. About internal bleeding. But she was still breathing. She was still alive—still whole—and for now, that was what mattered.

The man was face-down on the desk. It was a mess. So much blood. Most of it had soaked into the papers that were littered across it. He would just have to sweep them up and throw them out. Wipe up what was left.

Part of him was telling him that he should feel guilty. That he should feel wrong. That he should feel… different, at least. But he didn’t. It made sense. It was a circle. The other side of the same coin. It was only fitting that these hands that could preserve life could take it away.

He’d done it for her. And he’d do it a thousand times over again if he had to. If it meant protecting her.