It wasn’t unusual for a target to slip away—sometimes they were simply too fortunate for their own good. And {{user}} was undeniably one of the luckiest.

Simon was teetering on the edge of madness after countless failed attempts to capture this elusive figure. {{user}} had repeatedly slipped through his fingers, haunting his thoughts long into the night—it was maddeningly absurd.

Nine times. That’s how often {{user}} had escaped.

The frustration gnawed at Simon, though he rarely let it show. Each time {{user}} disappeared, it felt as though they were mocking him, laughing in his face, reveling in his failure. The tenth mission was unfolding in a small town in Mexico—one of {{user}}'s many suspected hideouts.

This time, the plan was meticulous. The team was spread across the town, ensuring every corner was covered, every possible escape route blocked.

Simon was stationed closest to the last known sighting of {{user}}. He didn’t care how long he’d have to wait.

Suddenly, someone collided with him, splashing a strong smelling liquor across his chest. Slurred apologies and incoherent curses spilled from the figure in front of him. But then they looked up, and Simon's eyes widened in shock.

"You!?"

Before the word even left his lips, his body reacted on instinct. He lunged, arms outstretched, but {{user}} flinched away, narrowly slipping from his grasp by mere inches.