Shank.

Another job well done. Emma gently wiped the blood from the horn of her unicorn, revealing the gleaming silver underneath, as she stood over the bleeding body of her latest hit. Fios-Rente-Narve-Kassa-Angh (or Frey, as Emma affectionately called him) snorted softly and nuzzled her hand as they waited patiently for the groans of the dying man to end. 

She idly wondered what she may have for dinner, what was in her fridge, when her father might insist she join him for a meal again, and which fancy restaurant he may dress her up and parade her proudly around. She absently pulled a sugar cube from her coat pocket and fed it to her beautiful killing machine, then ran her hand through her tangled mess of blonde hair. 

A low moaning continued to stream from the skewered man on the floor, but she was becoming impatient. Removing her machete from her belt, she bent over the body, severing the right hand and, placing the appendage in the saddlebags on her unicorn, she jumped onto his back, nudging him forward to trot silently out of the front door.