The sound of heels echoed throughout. It was hard to tell if the space was closed in, like a stone hallway in an old castle, or open but close, like an alley. It sounded hollow, the tap-tap of the heel, like a narrow wooden spike, as it connected with the cobblestone, and the lighter tap of the toe led to the conclusion that it was not a platform shoe. There was the sound of the shoe making contact with a puddle of water, it shplished around the otherwise quiet area, and when there was a pause in the steps and an audible sigh of exasperation it became clear that the wearer was a female, and that her shoes were likely open-toed. Layla knew the target would be wearing impractical footwear, was a woman, and was alone, so based on her conclusions she stepped out of the shadows she had been lurking in and cleared her throat to make her presence known. The other woman glanced in her direction and continued walking. Layla eyed her shoes enviously, she imagined it was a powerful feeling walking around in shoes that cost enough money for Layla to pay her rent for at least a year and a half. She could only imagine how much her clothes had cost. Lord, and that handbag. She could fit a small child in that thing, and made from real leather, Layla had no doubt.

As Layla kept a practical distance between herself and the woman she tried very hard not to focus on her own attire. Faded jeans, threadbare at the knees, fraying at the hems, one or two belt loops missing but a very well-worn brown belt strung through the remaining loops nonetheless. Blue long sleeve shirt with holes where her thumbs poked through under a cropped black vest that, like everything else, had seen better days. It was missing the third button but Layla had read somewhere that you weren't supposed to button the bottom one anyway. She had a brown leather cuff around her right wrist with letters stamped on it that couldn't quite be made out, but she remembered what they said. She was wearing someone else's pea coat, although it seemed to fit her just fine she sometimes felt like she was going to tear the stitching in the shoulders if she crossed her arms too tightly or reached up too high too suddenly. Her shoes were an embarrassment, black Converse with the material wearing away on the sides, the rubber running around the edges all cracked and split, the soles almost completely split across and water always got in even on the driest, warmest days it seemed to seek out her shoes.

They made barely any sound as Layla stepped in time with the well-dressed woman, and when she caught up to her and grabbed the shiny silver necklace around her throat from behind and pulled very, very tight she knew it wouldn't break, and she knew the woman wouldn't be able to cry out. Layla took one last glance around, even though she knew they were alone, just to be positive, and dragged the woman into the nearest shadows to finish the job. She thrashed for a bit but Layla restrained her until she finally stopped struggling and went slack and heavy in her arms. Layla adjusted her so she was laying flat out on her back, arms above her head and feet together, while she searched through her pockets and that enormous handbag before finally finding what she was looking for. When she got it she stored it safely in her beat up messenger bag and stepped back out from the shadows. She cast a lingering look at the body, with its fine clothes and jewels, before sighing and walking on. The necklace alone would have fetched a pretty damn penny, but not for Layla. She may have been a killer, but she was certainly no thief. Besides, she though absently as she made her way to the agreed meeting place, pretty soon she would be free. One more job, and not only would she be out of debt, she would be set for life. She'd never have to work, or worry, again. It occurred to her briefly that criminals always say 'one last job' before doing the job that usually ends up getting them killed. She tried very hard to ignore that particular thought.