Jensen became an assassin through a long and arduous process that spanned half the globe and involved a surprising number of sword fights. But, if you're looking for his first kill...
Jensen tightly keeps a hold onto the knife in his hand as he watches the man he had just stabbed drop to the pavement. The lights out on the street don't do much to illuminate the little alley he's in, but the blood on his skin, and pants, and shoes still looks shockingly red.
There's a noise and Jensen turns to the other occupant of the alley, the one that's not currently bleeding out. The one that Jensen had ventured off the street trying to save.
He's shorter than Jensen, with longish brown hair and a face that's been beat all to hell. The man sneezes and immediately cups a hand around what Jensen's pretty sure is a broken nose.
"Goddammit! Motherfuckin' shit!" He kicks at the body on the ground before he slumps back and lets the building behind him prop him up.
Jensen looks down at the knife. He should probably call the cops. He should definitely call the cops. This would be self-defense, right? The guy he dropped was going to kill the other one, Jensen knows it.
"Bud," the guy says, "don't flake out on me now." His voice is rough and nasally, but his eyes are bright. Too bright. "I might need some help with this."
With the hand not still holding the knife, Jensen fumbles for his phone. "I can call-"
"Hey! You're not calling anyone."
Jensen doesn't know how the guy manages to look half dead and completely menacing at the same time, but he pulls it off.
"Look," the guy says, "I will concede that, maybe, I shouldn't have taken this job when I have a bit of a cold. Or the flu. Whatever. What's done is done. Now, I have a proposition for you."
Jensen wonders if he should be freaking out. He wonders if he's in shock, even though he doesn't feel like he's in shock. He feels kind of... normal. Actually, he feels kind of... good? "What kind of proposition?"
"You saved my life, man. I owe you. So, how about you help me get rid of the body, and I'll cut you in fifty-fifty." The man sneezes, and once again it's followed by a round of cursing.
"You were hired to kill him?" Jensen asks.
The man nods, then groans a bit and clutches at his forehead.
Jensen looks down at the knife again. The blood's starting to get a little sticky. "Seventy-thirty," Jensen says.
The guy stares at him. "Pardon?"
"Seventy-thirty," Jensen says again. "I think I'm being generous. After all, I'm the one who's doing most of the work here."
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"What the actual fuck? Did we not just establish that I'm a killer?"
"We did," Jensen says. He holds up the knife. "But I'm pretty sure this is yours, since I picked it up just a few feet away from here. And I don't think you're armed with anything else or you would have used it on him. And me. You need my help to get away from this cleanly. And, while I'll certainly listen to your expertise on how to get rid of a body, the fact still stands that I'm the one who's going to be doing the work, ergo, I should be the one to get most of the money." Jensen shrugs. "It just seems fair."
"Did you just use the word 'ergo' in a sentence?"
"I know what it means!" The man stares at Jensen. "You take sixty, and I'll promise to not come back here in a few months, track you down, and pull your intestines out while you're still breathing. How's that for fair?"
Jensen weighs his options. "I'll accept those terms. With one more condition."
"Aw, Christ. What?"
Jensen thinks about his life. He thinks about his family, and his new classes at college, and how he doesn't really have any friends because no one ever wants to meet his eyes. He thinks about the itching he sometimes gets under his skin, and about how it felt to slide a blade between a man's ribs and up into his lung.
He thinks there's always been something wrong with him, and, evidently, there's a market for that.
"So," Jensen says, "how do you feel about work/study?"