Despite the fact that he'd been staring at that sword for over an hour, despite the fact that the blood had long since dried on the blade, Jon still couldn't bring himself to clean it. Close by, the heat was already leaving the body of the man that he'd ended, escaping into the air in little whips of steam. The wound had already stopped issuing blood out onto the stone floor, a sure sign that his heart must beat no longer. In the distance, Jon could hear the wailing of sirens, and he wondered numbly if they were coming for him. They couldn't be, though. No one had yet discovered what he'd done, so the idea of the uniforms on the way could only be paranoia. He felt the stinging of his lungs as he took deep breaths. This must be the shock that he'd heard about, keeping him from feeling the full weight of his actions, keeping his muscles slow and his emotions pushed down.
Who kills someone with a sword, anyway? A knife or a dagger, sure. That can happen any time. Hell, many people carry knives in their pockets. Jon once met a guy who carried a really big knife, something like a Bowie knife but with less width. It was kept in a leather holster on his belt, in a manner very similar to a sword, but he never drew it. He never even mentioned it; acted like it wasn't even there. He'd go about his business day by day and some people would never even notice the deadly weapon right there on his hip. Something about that told Jon that the guy was dangerous, that he knew how to handle a blade and didn't want to have to do so. It was comforting and unnerving all at once.
His mind was drifting away, leaving his body alone in the killing room, and he vaguely recognized that he was putting himself in danger. Had he been able to leave as soon as the deed was done, it would have been easier all the way around. Now, sitting here in the dead man's private room, he wondered if he could even feasibly slip past the guards. The fact that they hadn't come in here yet was some kind of small miracle. It could be added to the miracle of his victim having an actual sword mounted on his wall and that sword being easily removable and sharp enough to cut him down.
Jon took a moment to try and wipe the blade on the bed sheets, but it only served to cling to the sticky, dried blood that remained caked upon it. It would damage the blade if left on it for too long, said a strange memory of some book or program he'd once read. Jon liked the sword itself, and quickly resolved to keep it, to clean it up and oil and polish it once he was safely returned home. As for his victim, Jon looked back at him. He was dead, but he wasn't a very good person anyway; what kind of good person has armed guards patrolling his fancy house? He'd made for a satisfying first victim, and the feeling that Jon had felt had been... intoxicating. Addicting, even. It was easy to see why so many people that did this "serial" thing eventually got caught. He would have to take special care, but that was perfectly fine. He had all the time in the world.