The cigarette dangled from her lips: gently, softly, sweetly. On the tip of her tongue sat the taste of tobacco and the ever-so-faint flavour of blood. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the smoke. She let it rest inside her lungs, trapping it, before exhaling and letting it go free. Nonchalantly, she watched the gray wisps disappear into the cold morning air.

Beside her, the corpse of a man lay. His face was unrecognizable from the work of a single .357 magnum of a Ruger GP100.

She inhaled again. The revolver used to kill the man rested softly in her leather holster.

Outside, the city began to stir itself awake. Alarm clocks blared. Babies cried. Wives began cooking breakfast for the family. Lilith Passmore finished smoking her first cigarette of the day. 

In twelve hours, she would've chain-smoked through another packet, killed one more man, and picked out a new pair of jeans at Kmart.

It was just another ordinary Monday.