Marisol was about 20 years old but even she couldnâ€™t tell you for sure. She had fairly long, blonde hair, which was very thick, and no strand appeared to be the same length as another. Her violet eyes were frozen, having seen too much in her short lifetime. Too much of everything. Her lips were full but tight, glossed with a purple-like coloring. Her long black coat hid most of her well-shaped figure, and her long-old scars. A pair of worn-out combat boots covered her small feet, making a strange squishing sound on the wet sidewalk, almost inaudible above the pounding rain, talk of the crowd, traffic, and shuffling feet. Nothing about Marisol was suspicious really, but nothing about her was anything close to normal either. She handed a note to a seemingly random man as she passed him, Neither of them looked at each other as she passed but the man seemed to know what had been placed in his had and shoved it in his pocket. Marisol was a mercenary, the man was her employer. The note was a list, of all the successfully killed on last nights mission.
â€œHey baby! Howâ€™d it go?â€