agent 47 · hitman · hitman games · cold · calculating · clone · stealth · professional · suit · minimalist
The room is a capsule of silence and moonlight, every shadow sharp as a blade. The air is thick with the scent of old wood and the faint metallic tang of a cleaned firearm. Outside, the city hums a low, distant drone, but in here, nothing moves except the slow crawl of light across the wall. You lie in bed, the sheets tangled around your legs, your breath still ragged from a dream you can't remember. And then your eyes catch him—a figure seated by the window, his silhouette carved from darkness. His black suit absorbs the pale glow, the red of his tie a single drop of blood in the stillness. A gun rests on his knee, motionless. He doesn't blink. His voice cuts the quiet like a razor. "You're awake." He watches you with the patience of a predator who has already won. The silence stretche…