Her hair smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke. She was plump, which accounted for her bosom nearly spilling from a stained corset. Her makeup was crude and primitive, much like her whorish attitude. Cassandra was her name, and yes, she was a whore. Additionally, Cassandra was an Unburdened informant, although she was stubborn. Alas, a certain individual, with particular "skills" was sent to interrogate the whore informant. 
He was well recommended and expensive, due to the fact of his profound expertise. She would talk. 

Cassandra's eyes widened in horror as she tried to breathe. This was impossible. Her fingernails dug into a toned forearm, clawing frantically, primitively to catch a breath. A vice-like grip on a cold hand was around her thick neck. Shades of red, violet, then blue washed over her visage, and her eyes began to roll back into her skull. Just then, she was flung forcefully into the wall, slamming against the wood, and crumbling to the floor gasping for air. The ghostly assailant stepped from the shadows of the dimly lit room, on the fourth floor of a whorehouse known as "Wetty's Joint", in the good ol' settlement of Asylum. His smirk was carnal, revealed pearly whites, with pronounced canines. The eyes of the individual were sunken, and like pools of frothing oil. Emotionless they were. 

[i]"Tell me what I want to know, and I'll go away, whore"[/i], said the interrogator. 

Sweat rolled from the forehead of Cassandra, she hesitated, and he was upon her once more, slapping her viciously multiple times. She tried to cry out, but found her voice hoarse and quiet. Tears formed at the stinging pain of the slaps. Her vision was murky, she glanced at her latest customer, an unfortunate man ambushed by this hostile one. He was sprawled, hanging over the bed, the sheets and wooden floor were stained red. The jugular of the man had been slit, swiftly and professionally without sound, just as he was bartering with Cassandra. Bartering for pleasure. When she attempted to scream the intruder grabbed her throat again; and he squeezed viciously, ending his barrage of slaps. 

Icarai Buchinsky was making progress. The whore Cassandra muttered a name so quietly the blood dripping from the customers throat overpowered it. This required Icarai to bring a curved knife, (a dagger more or less), beneath her chin. The point pressed lightly upward, but not enough to draw blood. 

[i]"Louder!"[/i] Icarai commanded. 

Cassandra whimpered and uttered the name again, yet no louder than the first time. Icarai lessened his grip and drew close to face, turning his ear to her lips listening intently. He pressed the knife upwards slightly, drawing a bead of blood in which Cassandra revealed the name Icarai was searching for. Just then a flame lit in those dark pools Icarai had for eyes. A flame that quickly expanded, and raged. 

[i]"See, was that so difficult whore?"[/i] Icarai heckled. 

He kept the knife below her chin, but released his grip, bringing his pale hand to wipe a tear from her face. Her makeup was running down her plump cheeks. Cassandra's vision cleared and she stared into the eyes of this monster, utterly defeated. Her confusion only increased as he now caressed her face gently, his head tilted to the side to inspect her swollen face. 

[i]"My employer sent me because the last one you wouldn't speak to. You are a stubborn little bitch, and you figured running would secure your safety? I find people, that's why they hire me. And I'm the best. It's all just business really."[/i] Icarai's emotion turned devilish, the flames poured from his sunken eyes. 

[i]"And speaking of business, my employer no longer wishes to be business partners, you are relieved of your services whore!"[/i] 

Lightning fast, Icarai snatched a pillow and slammed it into the face of Cassandra, pressing her head into the wall. The curved knife cut up her chin, leaving a trail of red as it was brought outward then thrusted into her chest multiple times. Whatever futile scream she attempted was muffled indefinitely. Cassandra's limbs flailed violently then fell limp upon the seventh stabbing, which was followed with a coup de grâce. 

Icarai stood, his heart pounded with adrenaline. He licked his lips and wiped the drenched knife upon the clean side of the pillow, releasing it but it remained covering the final horrid expression of Cassandra the whore. He melted back into the shadows of the room, slithering to the drawn shades of the window and escaping the fourth story of Wetty's Joint to the streets below unseen. The moon was waning, the air chilly with the impending arrival of winter. The man had a name, and he would find them..

An hour and a half later a brute wielding a spiked club burst through the room of Cassandra hollering that the time was up and other customers were waiting for her unique pleasures. The room was dark, a chill breeze crept at his skin. The smell was foul--although strangely, a scent of pine was lingering.