A date. She hadn't been on one in a while, wasn't really sure what to think when her new neighbor stopped her in the elevator of her building and asked her out. 

It was her shoes, he said. Something about the footwear he saw her in over the course of the last week had appealed to him, and since the rest of her seem to match up to his tastes and expectations, he'd decided to simply ask her out.

Her first instinct was to say 'no', of course. There was no room for dates, relationships, love, or marriage in her line of work. But as she stood there in her designer shoes, her one nod to frivolity, she decided to go against her better judgement and conceded. Why not? She had no other plans. None that were something you could talk about in mixed company, anyway.

So here she was, standing in front of her bedroom mirror and fidgeting with her hair and makeup. Her driver and main bodyguard, Bill, stood to the side, silently watching.

"Terrible idea, you know."

"I know, Bill. But it's just for a few drinks, right here in the Taproom. I don't even have to leave the building. Really, what can go wrong?"

"Lots can go wrong. He's your neighbor. What if it ends badly? You gotta see this guy in the hallway, in the elevator, in the lobby, damn near every day, and Christ, what if he finds out what you do? No, strike that...when he finds out what you do..."

"Okay, okay! I get it. It's a terrible idea and I shouldn't have said yes and I'm sure I'll live to regret it!" She said, miffed now and pushing past him to grab her purse, keys, and wrap from the living room chair on her way to the door. "Look at it this way...you can gloat later!" She called back over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her, a bit harder than she maybe should have.

Thirty minutes later, she was sitting in the rooftop bar across from her date, Joe. He was a clothing designer, he explained, hence the fascination with her taste in shoes. He was nice, well-mannered, and even rose to pull her chair out for her when she stood to go to the powder room. In fact, she was enjoying herself so well that when, halfway through her third cocktail and smack dab in the middle of a conversation where she and her date were discussing dinner at a steakhouse just down the street, Briya was quite annoyed at the sight of Bill at the bar's entrance, an indescribable look on his features. Choosing to studiously ignore him while the conversation continued and she downed her drink, her teeth ground together in frustration as she saw him out of the corner of her eye, moving towards their table. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to speak with you."

"Not as sorry as I am. It will have to wait, as I'm busy."

"It's important."

"I'm sure it is."

"Briya." That got her. Usually it was 'Boss', 'Ms. Young', or even 'Ma'am', when he was trying to get under her skin. Never her first name. Looking up at him, she saw that he wasn't messing around. Work, probably. Damn it all.

"I'm sorry, Joe. Would you please excuse me? I'll be just a moment," she said, rising from her seat and following Bill to the other side of the bar, where the least number of patrons were sitting. Handing her a small piece of paper, Joe took a noticeable step backwards as she unfolded and read it.

"You've got to be shitting me. Are you sure??"

"Very sure. I triple checked.'

"This can't be right. It just doesn't add up!"

"Doesn't matter. You know how it goes. Orders, well, orders are..."

"Orders," she finished quietly, accepting the gun that he was now discretely passing to her. Hers was downstairs in her apartment, of course. Because who brings a gun on a date?

Returning to the table as slowly as a prisoner walking death row, Briya sighed loudly as she flipped the safety on the gun, levelling it at Not-Really-A-Clothing-Designer Joe's forehead. 

"Happy Valentine's Day," she said morosely, just before pulling the trigger.