A/N: So, I've been going through a rough stretch with my mental health lately, and gotten away from working on my other stories for a bit. But (and I'm not sure why) this little idea manifested itself and demanded to be written. It's not long, and maybe a bit strange, but I quite like it and thought I'd share. Title comes from the song 'Hey Man, Nice Shot' by Filter.

The main character isn't named, so it can be whoever you'd like, although I did have someone in mind while I was writing it.

I hope you enjoy, and I'd love to hear your thoughts :)

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The clink of my white porcelain coffee cup when I return it to its accompanying saucer grates on my nerves. The room isn't helping much either. The walls. The furniture. The linens. So sterile, so generic, even as hotels go. It's like a prison cell. Which is an unsettling thought since, for me, prison is always a distinct possibility.

Of course, they'd have to catch me first. I'm quite elusive, or so the sheriffs always say on TV when they're interviewed after another killing. They don't know my name or my face, but they know my work. Truth is, I'm not that elusive, they just don't know where to look. There's no rhyme, no reason, no pattern to my killings, which is by design. I never contract with the same client twice. Makes things too messy. We meet, they tell me whose brains they want blown out, they pay me, and I make sure it happens. Then we go our separate ways. Simple.

I don't think of it as murder. More like retribution. People wouldn't plunk down millions of dollars to get rid of you for no reason. A cheating spouse, a bitter rival, a backstabbing business partner ... it's all the same to me. Everyone's head takes a bullet the same way.

While I stare through my scope at Bradford Delson - a wiry man hunched over a desk on the fourteenth floor of the office building across the street - I vaguely wonder what he's done so wrong. What was so odious that someone is willing to risk it all to ensure his death? I've been tracking him for five days now, and he seems a perfectly normal, boring man. He splits his time between his work cubicle, his one-bedroom apartment, and the takeout restaurant down the street.

Bradford is one of the first to arrive at work, and one of the last to leave. He seems to get along with all his coworkers, but isn't especially close to any of them. His appearance is always sharp, but not flashy. His only distinctive feature is the mess of curly hair he allows to grow. He lives alone, as far as I can tell. Unless he's holding someone hostage - which, quite honestly, would explain a lot. I doubt it, though. He's not the type.

They say looks can be deceiving, but when you've been in this business as long as I have, even the most deceptive people become pitifully transparent. It's the transparent ones that are tricky. It took me a long time to realize that not everyone has something to hide.

My muscles tense and I grip my scope tighter when Bradford stands up from his desk. I track him through the wall of windows as he exits his office, heading down a hallway that I know leads to a bathroom. Once he's left my field of vision, I lean back from my own window to check the time.

4:15 pm. Right on schedule. In five minutes he'll return to his office, shut down his outdated computer, and pack his belongings back into his briefcase. Then, at 4:30, he'll turn out the lights, lock the door, and head home. At least, he thinks he'll be heading home. But I know that once he re-enters that office, there will be no leaving.

When the janitor stops by his cubicle at 5:20, Bradford's corpse will be discovered. There will be a frantic 911 call, but it'll be far too late. The local news will interview his family and friends, and they'll cry and insist that he didn't deserve to die, even though someone clearly thought otherwise. His office will be cleaned up, and another man will inherit the maple desk with the outdated computer. It'll be as if Bradford Delson never existed.

For a moment, I do feel sorry for him. It's not a sentiment I allow myself to linger on, but I don't shut it down completely. If I did, it'd be too easy to cross the line into psychopathy. I still have some morals, but they've been severely diminished over the years. What good would they do me?

Right? Wrong? In this business, it doesn't matter. All that matters is taking out your target as cleanly and discreetly as possible. That's what I'm good at, and why I'm so highly sought after. I pride myself on my precision. It means my victims feel very little pain - something I take solace in.

Taking a deep breath, I crack open my window and shift into position. Bradford will be back any minute. I double check my silencer and adjust my aim until I'm certain I've found the perfect angle. All that's missing is my target. I frown when the clock hits 4:21 and Bradford still hasn't returned. Schedules are never exact, but due to the nature of the job, waiting puts me on edge.

At 4:23 the door to his office opens. He steps in before shutting it behind him and reaching for his worn briefcase. Once he settles into his desk chair, I slowly count to three and pull the trigger.

Due to my expensive silencer, the sound and recoil are almost nonexistent. In mere fractions of a second, my bullet has found its home. His window shatters, but compared to the buzz of the city below, it might as well be soundless. I see his body flinch at the impact, but I squeeze my eyes shut and sink to the floor before I can witness his blood coating the walls.

I used to feel anticipation leading up to a kill, and something akin to macabre satisfaction. Now, I feel nothing. Just numbness, and perhaps a bit of relief. It eats at my conscience, but I push it away. Desensitization is only convenient for so long. It's a symptom, not a solution.

As I pack my things, my expression is trapped somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. I close the window and straighten the bed covers. Everything else in the room is untouched. I leave my key on the dresser, sighing when the door clicks shut behind me and I'm headed for the elevator. Time to get away from this city. Away from the pandemonium that is soon to follow.

In a few weeks, I'll scout for a new contract in a new city. I'll begin the whole process over again. That's the circle of my life.