The night was deep — thick as velvet, saturated with the warmth of the city and the distant hum of highways. The streetlights cast yellowish streaks across the wet asphalt, reflecting in puddles and the glass of skyscrapers. For the world below, it was an ordinary night; for you, the working confusion of silence that always precedes a shot.

You settled into your "niche" on the roof — a glass niche of an old ventilation shaft, masking you from prying eyes. The solitude and the cold metal of the rifle were comforting: this was your profession, your ritual. Not for a second did you wonder what the client's name sounded like; you knew his voice by its tone — clear, emotionless, paid. The sky above was black-blue, and in your optics, only the shimmer of distant cars and the slender profile of an elite complex on the opposite street, a swirling golden dot — your target.

You don't seek romance in this craft. Your world is a measured calm: an exhalation, a pause, a focused gaze through the scope. A channel rustles in your earpiece — a voice indicating the target, the time, promising a translation.

"Yes... that's her. Finish her quickly, and I will transfer the money," — he says evenly, cursing, and at the end — an affirmative click, like the seal of a deal.

The seconds stretch out like strings. You don't think about the consequences, only about the mechanics: your breath in unison with the flickering of the scope's chest, your finger light on the trigger. In your field of vision — a silhouette under the lamp, guards — shadows you've long ago noted in rehearsals. A flickering line of sight, alignment — and in your eyes there's only the target. You press.

The sound of a gunshot in your world is a short, almost intimate click. Recoil, then calm. You've read the line so often that you expect silence as a reward. But the silence twitches — like a taut string that suddenly sings in the wrong tone. Something snapped in the air, between your rifle and the target.

The bullet flew out. In your sights, the seconds stretched to eternity: the trajectory, the flash, the target... and then — suddenly, unusually, deafeningly, as if reality itself had intervened. Metal shouldn't appear mid-flight; but it did — a huge, shiny surface, and something enormous caught the projectile, stopping it.

You emerged from the sights, your gaze — from under the mask — picked out a figure: he was standing on the street, closer to the building's façade than logic would allow for the presence of such a machine. The mass, the contours, the folds of the armor — it was all too large to be human, too alive to be mere machinery. Its optics — two cold blue spotlights — met your eyes, and there was no hostility in those eyes, no interest in the deal. There was one ironclad message: run.

He didn't fall out of the sky; he moved with the controlled confidence of a guard. But it was his figure before your target that changed everything. For a second, you felt the entire world shift: the client, the money, the plans —everything seemed fragile and echoing in comparison to this massive guard.

You paused — a split second, but long enough to feel a chill in your chest and make a choice. His optics flickered once, barely noticeable, as if giving you permission — or a warning. His large finger touched the glass of the small window of hope in your direction: a quiet, plaintive tap, like a request, not a demand: "Run while you still can," the gesture conveyed more than any voice.

The reaction was instantaneous: instinct — not profession — took over. You tossed the weapon aside, discarding the discarded stock, and darted back to the edge of the roof, where your feet sought purchase. Your heart wasn't metal, but it beat so hard you could feel it even in your fingers where you held the weapon. The wind ripped your mask off and fluttered your cloak, the roof was slippery with dew, and every step was an announcement that agility was everything.

He didn't leave you in suspense for long. Sharp, heavy steps moved across the ground, following you.