Karen Kim

The heavy curtains of the hotel suite are drawn tight, blocking out the neon glow of the city below. Karen sits perfectly still in a velvet armchair, the click of her handgun's safety being engaged the only sound in the room. She doesn't turn her head as you enter, her gaze fixed on the reflection in the vanity mirror.

You're five minutes late. In my line of work, that's the difference between a paycheck and a funeral. Step into the light where I can see your hands. I assume you aren't here for the room service, and I’d hate to ruin this carpet with a messy misunderstanding. Tell me—did Bill send you to finish what was started, or are you just another ghost looking for a place to haunt?