Dara Brown lay in a pool of blood and shrapnel, sputtering droplets of reddish saliva into the pristine snow as a hazy darkness began to settle over the corner of his eyes. He had witnessed a miracle tonight.

Dara shivered. He felt...lighter all of a sudden. Cold.

"What were the odds of that happening?" he whispered weakly as the first flakes of evening snow fell wistfully to the ground below.

###

"... and that's why they call me The Unicorn."

Maya and Aiden gaped with astonishment at the man known as The Unicorn, or as they liked to call him, Dad. Dara didn't like to lie, but he didn't exactly think telling two young children the story of how he earned the moniker was an age-appropriate idea either.

Aiden, aged 8 and his father's biggest fan, could barely believe what he heard.

"Really dad? That's crazy!"

Maya, aged 12 and the primary inheritor of Dara's scepticism, was more doubtful.

"Don't listen to him," Maya scoffed, scrunching her nose in disdain. "Last weekend it was a different story. And a different one before!"

Dara laughed as he put on his coat. That was his little girl alright. He turned to Aiden, whose head hung in disappointment as the magnitude of Maya's words dawned upon him.

"Cheer up, boy. I'll bring jelly beans next weekend."

Aiden looked at his father with yearning and disappointment. Five o'clock Sunday was the worst time known to mankind because it was when dad had to leave and he and Maya had to wait a week before they could see him again. Dara was inclined to agree.

Rosanna was waiting for him at the door when he finally came downstairs. Her arms were folded across her chest, and knowing exactly what that meant, Dara braced himself for the inevitable verbal assault. Maybe she'd make it quick this time.

"Same time next week, Roz?" Dara asked, smiling meekly.

Rosanna was unmoved. Fifteen rocky years of marriage had taught her to never again fall for the charm of the man she once loved. And perhaps loved a little still.

"The child support is still due, Dara. We're drowning."

"I know," Dara sighed. "I'll get the money."

"You said that the last time," Rosanna hissed. "You promised, Dara."

"I said I'll get it, okay?!"

An awkward silence flooded the hallway.

"The only reason I put up with you is because the kids still adore you," Rosanna said quietly, her voice quivering. "I just wanted you to know that."

Dara could only see his kids once a week, but at least he only had to deal with this once a week. He didn't look her way as he stepped outside... 

...and never saw Rosanna or the kids again.

###

Crouching behind a dumpster, Dara unsheathed the pistol from his coat and kissed her (a firearm was always her) for the last time. Not once in over a decade had she failed him, and she wouldn't fail him today. Unfortunately, the frigid cold had other ideas. With strange affection, he eased a magazine into the well till it locked with a satisfying click. He held the weapon gingerly in both hands, admiring the glint of the barrel in the winter sun and enjoying the cold, hefty steel on his palms. Eleven years on the job, but Dara never got used to the power to kill a man. To change history. The power of a god.

The distant crunch of footsteps in the snow suddenly became audible, and Dara closed his eyes. Calmly, he raised the pistol to his face, taking a deep breath of that earthy rosewood grip. Dara peeked at his watch -a gift from Rosanna for their tenth anniversary. It was time. 

Dara decided long ago that he hated his job. Rumour had it that it was because of the blood. But Dara Brown wasn't a squeamish man. His long and distinguished track record attested to that. No, Dara hated his job because he had to bring it home. The colleagues who said to keep your work and your family separate didn't have a clue what they were saying. In reality, there was never a choice. In this line of work, you always brought home the pain, the despair and the stench of death. No amount of high-strength detergent could wash it off. He never once told his family about his real job, but he knew Rosanna could smell it on him, and when keen little Maya was born, he knew that she could sense it too. 

His ears perked and his pulse quickened as the footsteps grew ever louder on this quiet winter day. Like a lion on the hunt for its next meal, Dara licked his lips in anticipation as the quarry drew closer...as ten thousand dollars drew closer. It was time to go to work.

In a betrayal of his middle-aged, slightly pot-bellied aesthetic, Dara leaped over the dumpster with uncanny speed. Landing with the precision and grace of a tenured ballerina, he pointed his pistol at the target. A deafening silence enveloped the narrow alleyway as the target came face to face with the man known as The Unicorn. Pure terror flooded the target's eyes as he staggered back helplessly, hands raised towards Dara in a pleading fashion. 

"Please, no."

The merciless, cold click of the pistol being cocked back was his answer. Dara was not a bad man, at least he liked to think so, and he always did feel a little sorry for his targets.

"Nothing personal, sir." Dara said with a sympathetic smile as he moved to pull the trigger.

And he moved to pull the trigger again. And again. And again. But it wouldn't budge.

For the first time in his life, Dara felt panic begin to set in as he pulled the jammed trigger in vain again. The target, stunned by this fortuitous turn of events, was rooted to the ground.

Things moved rapidly from here. When the trigger finally came unjammed, Dara sincerely wished it hadn't. A small but brilliant ball of fire enveloped his right hand as he screamed in shock and pain. A divine and necessary act of intervention was now underway. Bits of shrapnel, cold steel and fragrant rosewood, went flying across the alley, embedding themselves in whatever they could sink their edge into. One bit of shrapnel skimmed the edge of his right eye, while another lodged deep into his windpipe, cutting off the air. Dara fell knee first into the snow. He watched through a crimson mask as his target suddenly found the motivation to run.  Seemingly (and miraculously) unharmed, the target made a run for it, bolting towards the edge of the alley and turning a corner as he disappeared into the distance.

His quarry gone, Dara collapsed onto the powdery-white ground, heaving as he stared up blankly at the pasty sky above. 

It was all very beautiful in a morbid sort of way. And for a brief moment, Dara was furious. 

And then quite suddenly, three good ones came to mind. And his anger evaporated instantly.

Those three were why he did what he did. And he would gladly go through hell for them again. For the first time in his life, Dara prayed. He prayed for Roz to find a way to get the money, for Aiden to be brave, and for Maya to look after him. 

And he prayed for a misfire like that to never happen to anyone. Because that shit hurt.

"What were the odds of that happening?" Dara asked.

Never again, the world seemed to answer as tears of pearl-white snow descended from the heavens above. Dara Brown had witnessed nothing short of a miracle today-

-and it was a shame he couldn't share it with the kids next weekend.