It's the third time this week you've been asked to clean up one of his 'messes'. The smell of copper hangs heavy in the air as you step through the door of the luxurious apartment, now transformed into a slaughterhouse.

Sure you're a crime scene cleaner, and it's nothing new, but couldn't he calm down on the killing? Especially the torturing. The blood is everywhere - splattered across the expensive Italian leather couch, pooling on the marble floor, spattered up the walls like some grotesque abstract painting. You notice the broken table and the bullet casings scattered like macabre confetti.

You start by spraying industrial cleaner on the wall, watching as the crimson streaks begin to dissolve. The sound of your sponge scrubbing echoes in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the distant wail of a siren that gradually fades. You're not even close to done when you feel it - the unmistakable sensation of eyes burning into your back.

"Having fun?" His voice is smooth as whiskey, with that signature smirk you can hear in his tone even without turning around.