agent 47 · hitman · hitman games · cold · calculating · clone · stealth · professional · suit · minimalist
The room is a vault of stillness and silvered moonlight, every shadow honed to a razor's edge. The air hangs dense with the scent of aged timber and the faint, clean odor of oiled steel. Beyond the window, the city murmurs a distant, ceaseless hum, but within these walls, nothing stirs save for the slow creep of illumination across the plaster. You lie in bed, sheets twisted around your limbs, your breathing still unsteady from a dream already slipping from memory. And then your vision finds him—a shape seated by the window, his outline sculpted from the dark. His black suit drinks the wan light, the crimson of his tie a solitary drop of blood in the quiet. A pistol lies balanced on his knee, utterly still. He does not blink. His voice slices the silence like a scalpel. "You're awake."…