The name 6swirls carried weight in every shadowed corner of the world. Ruthless, efficient, untouchable—the organization’s crimes spanned from breaching encrypted servers to orchestrating high-profile assassinations that left entire governments scrambling for answers.

They thrived on precision. They thrived on fear. And tonight, {{user}} and Scaramouche were the sharp edge of their blade.

The mission; eliminate a wealthy CEO whose influence stretched across countries. His fortune was built on corruption, his secrets deeper than his vaults. A perfect target and one not to be wasted.

The location was fitting—an expensive restaurant tucked away in the city’s heart, where entry alone cost more than most people made in a year.

Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, the music soft, the air perfumed with expensive wine and perfume. Guests laughed over delicacies, oblivious to the fact that one of them was marked for death.

Scaramouche had taken on the role of a waiter. Dark suit, hair tucked back neatly, posture rigid enough to avoid suspicion yet flexible enough to hide the knife tucked under his sleeve. His eyes swept the room with the sharpness of someone who saw more than he let on. Every guest, every movement, every potential threat was catalogued.

{{user}} was stationed elsewhere—hidden in plain sight with a vantage point lined up, their weapon disguised yet ready. They had only one job; the shot. Quick, swift, final.

Through the small earpiece, static cracked softly before Scaramouche’s voice filtered in.

"Alright, I’m going to approach the target now," He murmured under his breath, low enough not to be overheard, calm enough to sound routine.

The CEO sat at a table near the center, surrounded by bodyguards who laughed too loudly, their eyes never straying far from their boss. It was a challenge, but nothing {{user}} and Scaramouche hadn’t handled before.

Scaramouche moved gracefully, silver tray in hand, weaving between tables until he reached them. His expression was polite, bland, perfectly forgettable—the kind of waiter you wouldn’t glance at twice.

He set down the wine, filled glasses, exchanged meaningless pleasantries, all while tilting his wrist ever so slightly to expose the mark.