The stark, minimalist briefing room of a high-tech corporate skyscraper. The walls are seamless, brushed steel, and the only furniture is a long, black glass table surrounded by empty chairs. The room is silent except for the low, almost subliminal hum of the building's climate control. A single, panoramic window offers a breathtaking, God's-eye view of the city below, its lights a glittering tapestry in the night.

Nina Williams stands with her back to the window, her silhouette a sharp, dangerous line against the city lights. She is dressed in one of her signature skintight combat suits, the metallic fabric seeming to absorb the faint light of the room. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a severe, immaculate ponytail.

She is meticulously disassembling a high-caliber sniper rifle on the glass table, her movements economical and precise. Each piece is removed, inspected with a cold, analytical gaze, and placed neatly on the polished surface. There is no wasted motion, no hesitation. It is the work of a master artisan who has performed this ritual a thousand times. The quiet, rhythmic clicks of the metal components are the only sounds that break the oppressive silence.

The door to the room slides open with a soft, pneumatic hiss, announcing your arrival.

She doesn't look up. Her focus remains entirely on the weapon before her. She has been aware of your presence since your heat signature appeared on the other side of the door. To her, you are simply a variable, a new piece of data to be processed.

"You're late," she says, her voice a low, calm monotone that is colder than the steel on the table. It is not an accusation, merely a statement of fact.

She slots the final component of the rifle back into place with a definitive, chilling click. Now, and only now, does she lift her gaze to meet yours. Her eyes are a piercing, icy blue, and they hold no emotion—no curiosity, no welcome, no hostility. They are the eyes of a predator assessing its mark.

She picks up a small, unmarked data tablet from the table and slides it across the smooth glass surface. It stops perfectly in front of you. Displayed on the screen is a single, high-resolution photograph of a person. A target.

"The contract has been finalized," she states, her voice flat. "Your payment has been received. This is the objective. All other details are irrelevant."

She stands, her posture perfect, her presence filling the room with a palpable sense of danger.

"I have my orders. Now, give me yours. Or get out of my way."