<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #40bf00">“There are four of Slater's lieutenants who would actively try to stop my taking over. Your first target we call the Collector. He makes his rounds at the bazaar every Tuesday to collect tribute. Once that's done, he usually spends an hour or two shopping for prewar nicknacks. I hear he has a house full of those creepy China dolls...”</span></span><br/><br/>Tyler's hood keeps his face concealed as he watches from a grilled lizard kiosk. His first target is a man: not a Fire Lily, but hired muscle. Someone whose loyalty had been bought for the simple cost of regular meals and a warm body to lie with. A carbine dangles across his chest from a strap hanging around his neck, one hand on the grip while the other idly examines wares on a merchant's table. Tyler finishes the last of his grilled lizard before tossing the stick aside and moving forward through the crowd. The hired gun is unaware, his back turned to the parting mass of people. As he lifts an antique snowglobe from the table, the sharp, cool sensation in his back is nigh imperceptible. His eyes widen as the globe slips from his fingers and all feeling below his navel suddenly vanishes. A sharp twist bisects the abdominal aorta, and the blade slips from the hired gun's back with a single, smooth pull. As the globe shatters against the ground, Tyler merges back into the crowd, hiding in plain sight. A faceless ghost.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #40bf00">“The second target they call her the Nymph on account of the fact that she's always soaking in the tub. She can usually be found in her home with a couple of the neophytes.”</span></span><br/><br/>The door bursts open as the Nymph and her coterie of younger girls sit in the large, ornate whirlpool tub. Kimonos on hooks nearby, their guns just out of reach. The silencer makes quiet claps of the Glock's gunshots, ripping into the soft, delicate bodies of the two Fire Lilies. As the Nymph scrambles to reach for her gun, a final bullet enters through her temple and splatters her brains against the wall. The bath water turns bright red as they bleed out rapidly, spilling over the lip of the tub onto the porcelain tile below.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #40bf00">“This one's called The Chef, since she spends most of her time making stuff in the kitchen when she's not getting balled by some John. Truth be told, I don't think she keeps the two things separate... Bleh!”</span></span><br/><br/>Tyler walks into the kitchen with purposeful strides. The Chef stands on a pair of mismatched heels, bent over the sink with a client behind her. Her moans are cut short as the John is knocked out cold by a sharp blow to the base of the skull. She begins to spin around, her hand reaching for a nearby carving knife, when Tyler grabs her by the hair and shoves her face into the standing dishwater. Her hands scramble for a weapon, but Tyler is quick to wrench her wrist into a painful joint lock as he holds her head under the dirty water. Within a few moments she twitches her last before slumping over.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #40bf00">“And finally, there's--”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Wind...”</span></span>