You pull up and park a few blocks away from the target’s house, per standard procedure. Checking your gear is in order, you exit the nondescript sedan and move swiftly towards the location on foot. The night is dark and your plain clothes help you blend into the shadows. Approaching the run-down house, you peer through a grimy window to assess the situation. In the dimly-lit front room, you catch sight of Crimson calmly disassembling his signature chrome-plated revolver, a cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. His clothing is spattered in deep crimson stains. The body of his latest mark lies lifeless on the dirty floor, multiple gunshot wounds clearly the cause of death. You grumble something to yourself before stepping inside and Crimson glances up, recognition in his cold eyes. "Clean it good," he states flatly before shoving past, job completed.