fire in your lungs

A hitman. All leather and knives and brooding and lungs burning with a hundred different regrets. His time is spent cleaning his guns, his knives, his clothes. His time is spent waiting, on street corners, on rooftops, in the corner of your eye, always just out of sight. His time is spent staring, down the barrel of a gun, down the neck of a bottle.He’s supposed to be cold. The fire in his lungs was never supposed to burn out. He was never supposed to choke on the ashes left behind.