Out in the street, a shadowy figure is perched up in a tree, and as it falls downward in an attacking motion it plucks a mouse from the sidewalk into its mouth before flying off. A man walks on the other side, and takes a pull on his cigarette looking at this occurrence. He grins to himself. He then continues straight down to the bar on the corner. He opens the door, and finds the place empty except for only a few people sitting in the back. One of them is his target. It's just a young kid who the boss says has been "speaking too much."

He orders himself a scotch, and he downs it in one gulp. The manner of downing the drink isn’t because he’s nervous; it’s really just one of what he tells himself to be one of his signature moves. He starts walking back towards the pool table, and he picks up a cue. He fingers the stick with his gloves. He looks around and see's that no one is paying him any attention. He places the cue back on the table, and starts removing his gun. He withdraws it and fires one single shot into the kid's head. Blood spurts up over the bar, and the bottles, especially staining the labels on the top shelf. Everyone else lunges onto the floor except for the bartender. He fires a shot at the ceiling, and the bartender ducks for cover. He starts walking towards the front of the bar and sees one of the men on the ground pulling something shiny out of his pocket. He fires directly at it, sending a silver cigarette case flying, before going back out on the street.

He walks back over to Bleeker Street, and hails a cab. He tells the driver to take him to the Upper East Side on 2^nd Avenue. He walks a little bit more eastward after getting out of the cab, and walks up the stairs to his apartment. He finds one of his girlfriends sleeping in his bed, only noticing her due to a thin beam of the moon breaking through the side of his curtains reflecting on her foot sticking out of the quilt. He goes to the bathroom, gargles, and disrobes in complete darkness. As he starts to get in bed and put his arm around her, he finds that the sheets are a bit sticky. He puts his hand over her shoulder, and she feels lukewarm, almost rubbery. He reaches over to turn on a lamp, and sees a pool of blood that had formed around her head, neck, and all over one of the pillows. Her throat was slit, and it wasn’t a clean cut by any means. He stands back up quietly, and washes his hands in the bathroom. He splashes some water on his face. He gives the apartment a look over and checks the locks. He knows he can't call the cops, obviously. He isn’t scared, and he also knows who did this...