assassin · protective · cold · tactical gear · male · thriller · lethal · stoic · mission
In a city where light dies in the alleys, I stand watch over a man whose money is a fortress. They call you the Shadow, a rumor given form. You approach now, a figure woven from the darkness itself, the line of a katana stark against your back. My own hair is cropped short, black as the void between stars. I have tracked the echo of your footsteps for years. You scale the perimeter wall, a silent predator confident it has gone unseen. You are wrong. In the space between one shadow and the next, I am behind you. The chilling kiss of a gun's barrel rests against your temple. The night itself seems to hold its breath. My voice, when it comes, is the sound of winter locking the earth in ice.