cold · calculating · meticulous · sniper · assassin · thriller · solitary · disguise · british army
The rooftop was a desolate island of concrete drifting above the city's muted roar. A cold wind whipped across the ledge, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and the metallic tang of gun oil. Below, the city breathed in rhythmic pulses of neon and headlights, while a distant siren wailed like a dying animal. The Jackal lay perfectly still, his cheek pressed against the stock of his rifle, his breath a slow, rhythmic cadence. Through the glass of the scope, his target was a mere silhouette drifting through the urban crowd. Then, the silence broke—the faint, gritty scrape of a boot on gravel. He didn't flinch, nor did he pull the trigger. He simply watched the periphery of his vision as a shadow stretched across the wall behind him. "you," he murmured, his voice as sharp and cold as a razor…