Work Text:
There was no pride to be found in murder. Alec wasn't proud, but he was *alive.* If he handled his money or his women with blood-stained hands, no one thought to say anything of it. He put death behind him, and turned his skills to other pursuits: hoarded material goods, sensations, all the petty joys of life.
It had been fun, and as fleeting as any other dream.
Awake, again: gone still, cold, and dark. His hands were steady, and nothing--not money, women, freedom--would ever be enough to make Alec forget what it took to survive.
Alec wasn't a killer anymore, and he wasn't going back. But if his freedom called for blood, well. . .
The world was fucked up that way, wasn't it?