Deep in slumber, the phone rang, awaking the young man curled up in blankets. Picking up the receiver, he listened drowsily to the voice on the other end.

"Hey, man. I've got a job for you. Meet me at Fifth and Main," the man on the other line says.

Crawling out of bed slowly, he pulled on his trousers and shirt, glancing at his watch to see that it was nearly four in the morning. What job could they possibly need done? He pulled on his shoes, stepping toward the door before glancing into a mirror to look at himself. He'd not shaved in a week and his hair was a mess. He convinced himself that he had more pressing matters than his appearance. At this hour, it had to be something important. Exiting his house and beginning the trek to Fifth and Main, he noticed that the streets were eerily quiet. The sun hadn't even touched the horizon and the street sweepers weren't even out. During the uneventful trek, he lamented on the past jobs he'd done for these people. Everything from carrying packages to robbing stores. Before he knew it, he had reached his destination. There was a man standing at the corner, glancing over his shoulder and he knew this was the guy he was to meet. Walking closer, he took in the man's appearance. He looked nothing more than a common street bum. As he approached, the man whispered to him.

"A nice, prompt arrival. My associates like that. Here's the deal, there is an elderly man that witnessed my associates taking action into their own hands..He could be quite damaging to our organization. Your job is to get rid of him."

With that, the guy pulled a package from his waist coat. He looked at it briefly before passing it to the young man.

"You'll find everything you need in that package. When it's done, get rid of it."

The man turned and walked away, leaving the young man slightly bewildered. They had asked him to kill a man. Opening the package, he finds a slip of paper with an address that corresponds to the house across the street. The next article is a picture of the man, gray hair and skin sagging with age. The third and final item in the package is a pair of brass knuckles. It seems the guys wanted it to be a warning to anyone else who messed with them. Glancing at the house, he notices that none of the lights are on. The man is obviously asleep, so this should be easy. He moves closer, glancing over his shoulder to in an attempt to make sure he's not seen. Crouching low in the bushes, he makes his way to the back of the house. Looking around, he notices the backdoor, an upstairs window and a basement. Thinking hard, he decides that the basement would likely be less noticeable and quieter. He stops momentarily to say a silent prayer.

"God, please forgive me."

Pulling off his shirt and wrapping it around his hand, he punches a fist through the glass, making a soft shattering noise. Upon dropping through the window, he takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness then trudges forward. Upon reaching the stairs, he creeps up them slowly as to not make much noise and wake his victim. He pushes the door open slowly, sensing the creak before he hears it. Cursing to himself, he enters the living room beyond crouched low. Pulling out the brass knuckles, he takes a moment to pump himself for the coming kill. Upon reaching the stairs, he hears a soft scuffling noise, much like that of someone in a hurry to get somewhere. To his horror, he glances up into the barrel of a 12 gauge shotgun aimed at his head. It would appear that the man was not as weak as he appeared.

"Who are you and why are you in my house?" The old man asks, pushing the barrel against his forehead.

To this, he says nothing. He knew that speaking with the mark was a bad idea, especially in cases such as these. Instead, he aims a punch at the old man's kneecaps, connecting with a sickening thud. Before the old man had time to drop to his knees, he aims another punch at his gut, missing by a mere inch. The old man regains his composure and attempts to hit him with the shotgun. Apparently, the fool didn't think to load the gun before coming down to see what the noise was. Dodging the barrel rather easily, he connects with another punch, aimed at the old man's temple. With a resounding crack, the old man drops down to his knees, falling down the stairs.
"God damn heroes," The man mutters before going to the kitchen, in search of something to bind the man with. Finding something rope, he returns to where the old man fell, binding his wrists and legs tight and picking him up in a fireman's carry, headed for the kitchen. He tosses the man in a chair and goes to get a cup. Searching through the cabinets, he finds one and fills it with cold water. Walking back to the old man, he splashes him in the face, causing the old man to regain consciousness with a slight gasp. The old man looks up at him with hate in his eyes, perhaps thinking he can still fight his way out of this. The young man had other plans.

"Tell me what you saw," he said to the old man, all business.

The old man looks horrified, seeming to be connecting the dots.

"I didn't see anything man, I swear!"

With a quick right to the face, the old man cries out.

"Tell me!" the man says sternly.

"Okay, okay! I saw some guy in a black suit shoot a cop man," the old man states, all but pleading for his own life.

The man grins with satisfaction, knowing why he had been called to do this job. This man would ruin the Don. Noticing the grim look in the old man's eyes, he smirks.

"Who are you?" the old man sputters, barely holding consciousness.

"You can call me Panda," he states before punching the guy in the face again. Deciding that he'd wasted enough time, Panda aims for the old man's nose. A hard uppercut sent the man falling backwards in his chair. With a quick examination, he notes that the nose fractured and pierced the brain, one bloody mess. Walking toward the front door, he looks back at the house. Panda had lost his innocence this day. He could no longer be considered a citizen. Swinging the door wide, he steps outside, shoving the items back into the package. He treks back toward his house, stopping randomly to toss the package into a dumpster and lighting a match. He grins mischievously before flicking the match into the dumpster. Standing there for a moment or two, he watches it burn before returning to his path.

"May god have mercy on my soul," he remarks.