The city was quiet that evening, its neon glow painted the streets like a restless sea of light. High above, perched on the rooftop of a forgotten tower, Widowmaker adjusted her rifle. The contract was simple: eliminate you.

Seven hundred meters of distance. Nothing unusual for her. Through the scope, she watched you standing by the window of your office, a map spread across your desk. You looked relaxed, unaware. To her, it should have been effortless. One pull of the trigger and another ghost in the night.

She exhaled slowly, finger brushing the trigger—then froze.

Your head lifted. Your eyes locked with hers.

Not at the building. Not vaguely in her direction. Directly into her scope.

A chill coursed through Widowmaker’s veins, something she hadn’t felt in years. Her heartbeat, usually calm as a sniper’s metronome, faltered. How could you possibly see her from that distance?