I picked up the next crate and idly passed it to my coworker. The crates never seemed to end, load after load being shipped in by boat. The crates were made of stainless steel, the metal glinting off in the moonlight. No one knew what was in the tightly sealed boxes; no one cared. We were paid well and that was all that mattered.

I fought to control the shiver that moved through my spine as I spotted the Supervisor over the crate in my arms. I continued working as I watched him. The Swedish man moved with an unnatural grace, an unspoken coldness. No one knew his name—no one dared to ask—so my coworkers and I called him the Supervisor. A dangerous air seemed to emanate from the man, covered up by an impassive facade.

I picked up another crate, a large red FRAGILE sign covering its side. As I was handing it to my coworker, the Supervisor's cold eyes met mine.

I froze.

The crate lay forgotten where I had dropped it, and in an instant, the Swedish man appeared at my side, pointing a slim Beretta at my head. My pulse was racing, my head spinning. In that second I knew I was facing an experienced killer. He had come over to me, drew his gun from is holster, and aimed it all in a split second. He leveled his green eyes with me.

Without meaning too, I gulped. There was something dark about those eyes. Something sinister. He probably wouldn't even blink if he pulled the trigger.

"Pick up the crate."

He spoke English fluently, though the words came out as too pronounced, too refined. Almost as if he had to think about every word before he spoke them.

"Now," he added, voice devoid of emotion but with a sharp glint of threat in his voice. I heard the safety lock click, and somehow, the words processed in my mind. I realized that I hadn't moved yet, and with haste, I did as I was told.

"Don't do that again."

I merely nodded, relieved, until I saw the wicked smirk slide onto the Swedish man's face. Terror flooded my features. Was he going to shoot me?

Apparently, he saw. He patted my head condescendingly. "Don't worry about your own life." His eyes darted to the man fifteen paces away from me, a man whom I've become good friends with. "Worry about your friend's."

He shot the man, promptly removing the barrel of the gun from my head. Slowly, blood started seeping out of the neat, little bullet hole in between the man's eyes. There was no sound to alert the shot, muffled by the silencer on the Supervisor's gun. There was just a small thump as the man's body fell to the ground.

The Supervisor tucked the Beretta into the waistband of his jeans and walked away. I managed to hear past my thundering heart as his calm voice drifted out quietly...

"Another death. Another corpse."

A/N: I wrote this when I was 11 in class so it's 200% lame but I decided to post it anyway.