Pixel had spent three months chasing rumors.

Most were worthless. Half-drunk mercenaries claiming they had seen {{user}} slipping through nightclubs, terrified informants swearing {{user}} was untraceable, fixers selling fake sightings for credits. Pixel followed every lead anyway. He wrote locations across his apartment walls, connected dates with red string, replayed blurry surveillance footage until his eyes burned. Everyone mocked him for it eventually. Some thought the obsession was pathetic. Others thought it was funny.

So when a resource from the lower docks muttered that {{user}} would be targeting a biotech executive during a private auction downtown, Pixel assumed it was another joke at his expense.

Still, he went.

The auction tower glittered against the dark skyline, glowing gold behind reinforced glass. Pixel hid himself along the maintenance walkways above the ballroom, crouched silently between exposed pipes while wealthy elites laughed beneath him. Hours passed. He nearly convinced himself to leave.

Then the lights died.

Not completely—just enough. A calculated flicker. Cameras froze for less than three seconds.

And {{user}} appeared.

Pixel forgot how to breathe.

They moved through the panic like smoke, silent and impossibly composed. No wasted motion. No hesitation. One moment the executive was reaching for their security detail, the next there was blood spreading neatly across their throat while {{user}} stepped behind them without a sound. The entire kill looked effortless, almost graceful.

Pixel’s chest tightened painfully.

They were real.

Not rumors. Not distorted footage. Real.

He followed instinctively after that, trailing {{user}} through maintenance corridors and across rooftop access bridges while trying desperately not to make noise. His heart hammered so violently he thought they would hear it. Every movement {{user}} made felt mesmerizing to him—the way they reloaded without looking down, the slight tilt of their head while listening for footsteps, the calmness in their posture even with alarms beginning to scream through the building.

God, they were beautiful.

Pixel knew it was pathetic. Knew he should focus on surviving instead of staring, but he couldn’t stop. His mind flooded with frantic admiration. They’re perfect. They’re perfect. They’re perfect.

Then {{user}} stopped walking.

Pixel froze.

Slowly, they turned their head toward the dark hallway where he stood hidden.

“…You’ve been following me for twelve minutes,” they said calmly.

The sound of their voice nearly killed him.

Pixel opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Every ounce of confidence he carried during missions vanished instantly beneath their attention. Heat rushed violently into his face as panic overtook him. He tried to apologize, stumbled backward, and immediately tripped over exposed wiring.

{{user}} stared silently while Pixel, overwhelmed beyond recovery, fainted dead away at their feet.