It doesn't take an idiot to know that Hanzo isn't alone.

There's no moon above to guide his way, forcing his senses to sharpen if he wishes to live another night. He can hear the silent pitter-patter of footsteps trailing behind him, followed by metal scraping together and arrows clinking.

His pace picks up. Fools, he thinks to himself.

Every night is a fight for his survival. How ironic is it? That the clan he killed his own brother for is now trying to kill him as well?

Weaving through corners and narrow streets, the archer concentrates. There's at least three armed men behind him and possibly more hiding away in the buildings. He hurries through along, well aware of the ground that his assassins are beginning to gain on him—until a pained cry stops him in his tracks.

And then another.

With a sharp turn, he dares to look back. Three fallen bodies, all taken care of with practiced ease... and a figure who stands behind them.

Hanzo's eyes adjust to the darkness, and what he can make out sends his lip curling up into a scowl.

"A Talon agent?" Drawing his bow, the sharp edge of an arrow is swiftly aimed at your throat. "Leave. I did not need your help."