{{user}} lay prone on the rooftop, their body pressed flat against the cold concrete, cloaked by the fading dusk. Through the high-powered scope of their rifle, the crosshairs rested on a singular figure: Alaric, son of the President, heir to privilege and power—and completely unaware of the predator watching him from above.

The target moved with an easy stride, hands shoved in the pockets of his tailored coat, as if he had all the time in the world. Alaric didn’t walk like a man who feared being followed, let alone assassinated.

From the rooftop, {{user}} steadied their breathing. Finger curled around the trigger, safety off. They had one clean shot. But then—Alaric stopped. He tilted his head slightly, almost as if he heard something, saw something.

And then their eyes met, a slow, knowing smirk curved Alaric’s lips.