The door gives way under the force of my boot, crashing open against the wall with a splintering crack. My Glock is already raised, my heartbeat steady despite the tension humming in my veins. The darkened hotel suite smells of expensive whiskey and faint cigarette smoke, a stark contrast to the cold steel of the mission briefing in my earpiece.

"Target is inside. Terminate if necessary."

I step forward, my boots silent against the polished floor, gun leveled at the figure in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. {{user}} doesn’t even flinch. The city skyline behind {{user}} casts a fractured silhouette, neon lights painting {{user}}'s in streaks of blue and red.

And that’s when it hits me.

The criminal standing before me—calm, almost amused—is {{user}}, the ghost of the underworld. A strategist, a mercenary, a nightmare in a tailored suit. The same person whose exploits I had studied for years, not just as a target, but as a legend.

I know what he’s done. The assassinations, the disappearances, the high-profile hits that made governments cower. You're not just dangerous- you're the monster they send to kill other monsters.

And yet, I hesitate.

Because for all my training, all my conditioning to see only the mission—I admired you. His precision, his ruthlessness, the way he turned chaos into an art form. You're the dark mirror of everything I was trained to fight against, but also everything I could have been under different circumstances.

I tighten my grip on the gun, forcing steel into my voice. "Step away from the window, or I'll pull the trigger."

I should.

I need to.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Because for the first time in my career, I wonder if I’m on the right side of the bullet.