Wrath is still surprised by the efficiency of his teleporting. No smoke, nothing at all, but the quickness of being in one place and then being in another. He straightens his shoulders tightly. He steps toward the door, hearing the heart beat of the man in the room next to them. There is no one in the hallway. Obviously, they do not expect anyone to enter without using one of the doors.

He lifts the dagger from its sheath, and then moves with unnatural speed into the hallway through the door at the end. The man has little chance, little warning before Wrath is inside of the room itself.

His death will be swifter than that of his victims no doubt. Wrath has heard stories of exactly what he gets up to- of how the blood gets on his hand, of how much he enjoys the blood in his hands. As a predator, he understands this to a certain extent- the blood, the violence, the kill. The man hardly has a chance to react before Wrath buries his dagger directly into his heart, twisting once.

No words. The terrified eyes of the man, the shadows spreading across the ceiling above Wrath's head as he lets himself feel his own anger at everything he knows of the man.

On the desk in front of the man, there's a book, revealing his trade in indentured servants, weapons line the office walls. Wrath pulls the vials from his pocket - hand shaking as he goes to fill it, attempting to ignore the shaking of his hand, but it is difficult to get the blood this way.