Mini-story: Symptoms

My symptoms had been getting steadily worse for almost a year by the time I was brought in for questioning. I’d been in denial for at least eighteen months at that point. It was easy to hide from other people because my profession is an extremely solitary one. The very few people that I do meet invariably don’t have the chance to even see my face — and if they do, and I do my job right, it’s the last thing they ever see. My reputation precedes me, you might say. My clients all come via word of mouth, and I vet them extensively before entering into communication. When we do make contact, it’s via end-to-end encrypted text-only communication piggybacked onto the protocol of a massively multiplayer online role-playing game. Payment is 70% up front, with the balance due immediately upon confirmation. My rates are… well, probably higher than you’d ever believe. But I’m very, very good at my job. I noticed the first sign that something was wrong in late Autumn, the year before last. I’d…