Killer leaned casually against the worn brick wall, the glow of his cigarette flickering like a heartbeat in the dim Parisian evening. The city moved around him — cars grumbled past, laughter bubbled from café terraces, and footsteps tapped along the cobblestones. Yet none of it touched him. He existed just beyond the chaos, a shadow with raven-black hair that fell messily across his face.

He exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the air before dissolving into nothing. His dark eyes surveyed the crowd, calm and unreadable, as though he saw everything and cared about none of it. People brushed past, some throwing quick glances his way, instinct whispering that something about him was... off. Killer didn’t mind. He had that effect.

His attitude, like his presence, was effortless — still but never stagnant. This was his space, his moment. The cigarette was a prop, the waiting a ritual. Somewhere out there, within this writhing city, was his purpose for tonight. A job, a name, a reason to move. But for now, Killer let the seconds tick away.

He flicked ash onto the sidewalk, his lips curling into a faint smirk. Time would deliver what he needed. It always did. And Killer was patient.