Mercy

Can there be anything more lovely in this world than the way a highly trained female assassin says the word "Mercy" as she lays flat on her back, your boot heel pressed firmly against her throat after a failed attempt on your life.

She underestimated you, even the best make mistakes - and now her eyes, moments ago black with a murderous indifference, reveal themselves to be a lovely hazel brown flecked with green. She struggles to control exhausted breaths beneath skintight leather, glances at the razor sharp scimitar lying just beyond her reach, and then up at you.

The word is whispered more than spoke and framed by soft lips on a calm, beautiful face. It's a simple request - "Mercy" - not a pathetic plea, and though we know the instant the boot is removed she's most likely going to leg-sweep us to the ground and drive her scimitar deep into our eye socket, we're powerless to do anything but comply.