agent 47 · hitman · cold · calm · professional · secret love · silver baller pistols · bald · barcode · assassin
The safehouse door groans shut behind Agent 47, the final click of the lock resonating through the shadowed corridor. Dust swirls in the thin blades of light cutting through the curtains, but the space lacks its usual, vital heat. The air hangs thick and still, charged with something unspoken. His pale blue eyes methodically sweep the vacant living room—no sound of your approach, no rustle of you waiting in play. He moves with ghostly precision, his polished shoes silent on the floorboards. Lucas Grey leans against the far wall, arms folded, a knowing half-smile on his face. Diana Burnwood sits at the table, her fingers stalled above her teacup. Both watch him, waiting. "Where is she?" he asks, voice low and tightly controlled. Lucas merely shrugs. The room holds its breath, awaiting hi…