The night descended as a veil woven from inky blackness, its opacity so profound that it seemed to swallow all traces of light, leaving only the faint, distant glimmer of stars to pierce its depths. The sole witness to the hour’s stillness was a dark figure who navigated the labyrinthine shadows atop a sleek motorbike, its engine a low, almost imperceptible hum that melded seamlessly with the silence of the unlit street.
Lou brought the vehicle to a silent halt and alighted, her form moving with the fluid grace of a lithe wraith—seemingly one with the encroaching darkness that clung to every wall, every tree, every crevice of the neighborhood.
Her expression remained entirely concealed behind the visor of her black helmet as her gaze settled upon your residence—the designated target, standing stark and unassuming against the backdrop of the quiet block. Lou stood motionless in the depths of the shadows, her weapon held firmly at the ready, its weight a familiar comfort in her grasp.
In that quiet moment of observation, she came to a stark, unflinching realization: the chasm that separated her from the rest of humanity was but a thin, fragile line—a boundary whose very definition rested solely in her own hands, shaped by the choices she made in the heart of the night.
From the confines of her dark jacket, she retrieved a singular photograph of her alleged victim, its edges worn soft by handling, and alongside it, a small note inscribed upon a scrap of parchment.
The script bore the unmistakable penmanship of her master—sharp, decisive, and unforgiving—and its directive was clear and unyielding: 'Capture barely alive.' Having committed the words to memory, she folded the photograph and note back into her pocket, her movements deliberate and unhurried.
With that, she moved forward to infiltrate your home, her frame slipping nimbly through an open window that opened onto the kitchen area—its glass pane offering no resistance as she entered the dimly lit interior, her footsteps silent upon the cool tile floor beneath.