The Art of Efficiency

The kettle began to whistle on the stove, sending rhythmic bursts of steam into the small, makeshift kitchen. As the water boiled, the young woman paced gracefully through the cramped hotel room, her legs carrying her with an almost feline poise. From her handbag, she carefully retrieved a packet of jasmine tea as if performing a ritual. She inhaled the seductive notes of the aroma, and her body trembled with pleasure. Premium quality from Grasse, France. A playful smile tugged at her lips.

Every step she took radiated elegance as she moved quietly toward the cupboard above the sink. She opened it and frowned at the sight of chipped mugs. Her brow furrowed as if she could see every pair of lips that had pressed against the worn rims over the years; every hand that had held them with greasy, unwashed fingers. No, those wouldn’t do. Thankfully, she was prepared. As per usual.

She spun on her heel with a sigh and returned to her bag. Reaching for it, her fingers paused and then redirected themselves toward a small leather case resting beside it. With delicate precision, she pulled out an antique, well-preserved box. It revealed a fine porcelain cup adorned with intricate ceremonial patterns, followed by a saucer no bigger than her palm. She pirouetted toward the counter with an almost dance-like movement, placed her treasures on the counter, and glanced at the stove. The water had come to a boil. It was time.

In that exact moment, she felt his gaze, shamelessly tracing her silhouette, greedily absorbing every inch of her. Heat coursed through her body as she turned to face the double bed. She met his gaze boldly, savoring the view before her. Their little den told the story of the wild night they’d shared. His naked body lay entwined in a chaos of crumpled white sheets, a testament to their untamed passion. Pillows were strewn in every direction, amplifying the primal disorder. She smirked playfully. Nothing was in its place, and the first rays of dawn lazily stretched their fingers across the room.

They slipped shyly over his body, teasing his tousled hair, dancing across the sleepy gleam in his eyes. They skimmed his muscular torso, glinting against the hair on his chest and stomach. They slid down the sheets that barely covered him before disappearing into the edges of the bed. Her gaze lingered there as the tip of her tongue brushed over her plump lips. The gesture did not go unnoticed, and the sheet twitched impatiently. Something had awakened.

He stretched, the slow, deliberate movement allowing the sheet to slide further down, revealing more of his skin. The teasing glint in his eyes left no room for doubt.

The woman turned toward the kettle, calculating that she had a bit of time to spare. She looked back at him, locking eyes, her gaze answering the unspoken question in his. Yes, the morning would rival the night. Her deliberate walk back to the kitchenette foretold as much.

Unhurried, she began her ritual for crafting the perfect cup of tea. Her partner watched her every move—the catlike sway of her hips, the seductive rhythm of her steps. The way her fingers glided over the porcelain, as though caressing him instead. And he reveled in the sight.

Noticing the thin white T-shirt she wore, translucent enough to hint at the curves beneath, his breath quickened. But he was patient. He wanted to savor this performance—he was, after all, the sole audience member. And he was certain it would be worth the wait. The experience they shared that night had proven it.

He lazily ran a hand through his hair, brushing away a rebellious lock. Slowly, excruciatingly so, his hand slid down his torso and disappeared beneath the sheet. The rhythmic movements that followed quickened his breathing. His eyes stayed locked on hers, inviting, expecting. A quiet moan escaped his lips, and she crossed her legs deliberately, her fingers leaving the cup of tea with one last graceful motion before heading to the bed.

The invitation had been accepted.

With predatory grace, she climbed onto the bed, crawling toward him. She joined his game, but it was she who took control. The air filled with heated touches, whispered sighs, and the slow, intoxicating rhythm of bodies coming together.

After a while, the dark-haired woman rose and returned to the kitchenette. She sat slowly on a high stool, crossing her legs, looking deep in thought, entirely immersed in the moment. As if she were alone in the room. Alone in the hotel. Alone in the town. As if nothing had happened.

A satisfied smile graced her lips as they met the rim of the porcelain cup, and she took a sip. Yes, it had cooled more than it should have; she’d let it sit for too long.

“You know,” his voice was hoarse, thick with satisfaction—the kind only a man could feel after being thoroughly pleased—“I’ve never been with a woman like you. Damn, you’re like a panther.”

“Really,” she replied, her tone flat, devoid of curiosity.

“Damn it, will I see you again?” Desperation and longing seeped into his words.

Her answer cut through the air like a blade.

“No.”

“You’re playing hard to get now, huh?” He chuckled. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

“Actually... I’m right on time.” She glanced at the clock, its hands marking 7 a.m., just as a knock sounded at the door.

He tensed, propping himself up in bed. No one knew where he was. He shot her a wary look but had no time for questions.

The woman walked to the door with measured steps, cracking it open just enough to see who stood on the other side. The man at the threshold nodded, the brim of his dark cap obscuring his face. He handed her a box, turned, and left.

A tense silence filled the room. He didn’t know how to react—he was too sober for this drama. And she was far too focused on her task to care.

“What kind of game are you playing, you bitch?” he spat, trying to sit up and muster some semblance of authority.

“Games are more your thing,” she shot back, casting him a brief glance before continuing in a mock-concerned tone. “If I were you, though, I wouldn’t move too much.”

His face reddened, veins pulsing with anger. He hurled a string of insults at her, his voice rising as panic seeped in. But she remained unshaken, calmly folding her clothes and slipping them into her bag, as if his outburst were nothing more than background noise.

It took him a few moments to realize the truth. It wasn’t last night’s hangover keeping him pinned to the bed. Not the early hour. Not even exhaustion.

His breath hitched. Fear slithered in.

Slowly, he asked, “What do you want?”

This time, his voice lacked bravado, the arrogance stripped away. Fear has a way of humbling even the toughest men. It plants its seed and grows relentlessly, no matter how solid the ground.

“My wife… my kids…” he stammered, his words faltering. “You won’t get away with this.” But even he didn’t believe the threat.

The woman had already packed her things. The delicate cup she had used was washed, dried, and snugly tucked back into its ornate box—for next time. She was fully dressed when she turned to look him in the eyes.

The truth was, she relished these moments. She loved staring death in the face and welcoming it—only in the eyes of her victims, of course. Some would call her a monster. But she had her morals. Scruples, however, were another matter entirely. Her gaze swept over his body one final time, lingering on his chest, the shallow rise and fall as the poison worked its way through him. Her body still hummed with the remnants of pleasure. Yes, scruples were overrated. Pleasure wasn’t freely given—it had to be taken. And she never missed an opportunity to do so. A small indulgence for a job well done.

Some might call her a monster, but she preferred another word. Efficient.

She walked over to the nightstand on his side of the bed, arranging the papers she had pulled from the box while the last vestiges of life ebbed from his body. He still didn’t get it. And the sad part was, he never would.

She scattered the papers across the nightstand—gambling slips, threats from loan sharks, overdue tax warnings, bank statements riddled with payments to hotels and escorts. It was all there: the dark underbelly of his life, his vices laid bare.

What remained unseen was the image burned into her memory—the sight of his pregnant wife clutching their two-year-old child, her face bruised, her eyes hollow with despair, teetering on the edge of giving up entirely. That was how the dark-haired woman had found her, during their first—and last—meeting. It didn’t take much time for the decision to be made. A life of suffering, hardship, and pain was just one decision away from a life of freedom and abundance, paid for by a generous life insurance policy.

And the decision was only one. It needed to be effective. And she made it without hesitation.

A sharp knock echoed through the room, and the door swung open.

“All done?”

“You know it,” she replied, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

He glanced at the lifeless body on the bed and smirked. “Works every time, doesn’t it?”

“My formula is foolproof,” she said, winking as she walked toward the door.

“Hey, don’t forget—you owe me a beer.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Next time,” she shot back with a sly grin before stepping outside.

She chose her partners carefully, and she knew he’d clean up flawlessly. Every trace of her presence would be wiped clean. Investigators would find only a scattered mix of fingerprints from past hotel guests or ghosts who had never set foot inside. It didn’t really matter. They’d find nothing suspicious during the autopsy, either.

Her formula was flawless, and, like any true professional, she never revealed her secrets.

The wind tousled her dark curls as she strode down the morning streets, a satisfied smile on her lips. She breathed in the crisp air, soaking in the sunlight. God, she loved mornings like this—when everything was beautiful, and opportunities lurked around every corner. How could anyone not love this life?