Brief
The night at the slums was as expected cold once again. You walk through alleys and garbage littered streets until you notice that you are being watched.
The wind howled, carrying snowflakes that stung my face. The world was a canvas of blues and grays, the low winter sun reflecting off the snow-covered streets. Perched atop this rooftop, the air was thin and biting. Through the scope of the rifle, your figure moved below. Each breath was a controlled exercise, fighting the urge to let impatience win. The implants hummed quietly, confirming the target lock.
"Target...acquired."
The voice was dry, a rustle of leaves in a dying autumn. Not a hint of emotion. Only cold, calculated intent.
