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The feathers of the black crow mask brushed lightly against Agent 47’s cheek as he adjusted it into place. The costume still carried the faint warmth of its previous owner—Raymond Kulinsky, who now lay motionless, hidden away in a dumpster. Like always Agent 47 assumed his targets role with clinical efficiency. The weight of the walkie-talkie in 47’s hand felt insignificant light compared to his silver ballers, he used to eliminate his competitor.
Yet, another target remained.
He moved through the crowded streets of New Orleans, swallowed by the chaos of Mardi Gras. Music pulsed through the air, bodies pressed together in celebration, colors and masks blurring into a living tide. Among them, 47 advanced with measured calm, another bird among many, yet utterly apart.
A crackle broke the noise.
“God, I hate waiting…”
The voice was sharp, impatient—female. The walkie-talkie buzzed softly in his hand as he raised it to his ear.
“Waiting’s the worst part,” she continued, her tone laced with restless energy. “I swear, I can’t wait ‘til we finally whack that stupid target…”
Angelina Mason.
47’s expression remained unchanged, but something in him registered the voice. Not just the information it carried—but the cadence, the reckless edge, the faint thrill woven into her words. Amateurish, he noted. Undisciplined. And yet… there was something else.
Appealing.
He considered remaining silent. That would be the logical choice.
But before he could decide, her voice returned—lighter now, shifting tone without warning.
“Polly wants more than a cracker when she gets back to the nest…”
47 paused mid-step.
The words were crude, unrefined. Beneath his mask, his brow tightened almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t the innuendo that caught him—it was the pull behind it. The strange, subtle tug that lingered in his mind, urging engagement.
A familiar sensation. The same invisible current that guided his hand through impossible situations. Only now… it led somewhere else entirely.
Without fully deciding to do so, he lifted the radio. When he spoke, his voice mimicked Kulinsky’s rough tone with perfect accuracy.
“Careful,” he replied, low and controlled. “You might get more than you’re asking for.”
There was a brief pause. Then—laughter. Bright, sharp, delighted.
“Oh, I like that,” she said, her voice warming instantly. “My boo, is , huh?”
47 continued walking, but his pace slowed. The mission remained clear in his mind—identify, approach, eliminate. Yet the exchange had already shifted something.
“I’m gonna give a whole new meaning to the ‘dirty bird’…!” she added, her tone openly playful now, pushing further without hesitation.
47 found himself responding before the thought fully formed.
“Talking is easy,” he said evenly. “I prefer action.”
“Mm,” she hummed, amused. “You’ll get action. Don’t worry about that.”
The music around him swelled, drowning fragments of the conversation, but her voice cut through it effortlessly. Each word carried that same strange pull, threading into his focus, redirecting it.
He exhaled quietly. This was a distraction. It should be ignored.
And yet—
“Where are you?” he asked, the question slipping out with a tone that balanced between curiosity and something almost… playful.
For a moment, he registered the deviation. The unnecessary engagement. The shift in objective.
Then her answer came, immediate and eager.
“I’m back in the alley behind the music shop, honey boo!”
47 stopped.
The mission aligned again. Location confirmed. Target identified.
But something had changed.
He resumed walking, turning into a side street where the crowds thinned and the music softened into a distant echo. His steps remained steady, controlled—but beneath that precision, there was something new. A faint, unfamiliar tension. Not hesitation. Not doubt.
Something closer to anticipation.
He adjusted the crow mask once more as he approached the alleyway, the shadows stretching longer ahead.
She was still a kill.
But somehow—for the first time—it didn’t feel like just another contract.
Agent 47 entered the alley, and as soon as he stepped his foot into it, the noise of the festival was quickly swallowed. The music had faded into a long distant pulse, laughter reduced to muffled echoes behind the bricks of the surrounding buildings. Here, the air was cooler, heavier, broken only by the faint hum of a nearby neon sign and the soft creak of something swaying overhead.
He stopped just inside the darkness.
And there she was.
Angelina Mason stood with her back half-turned to him, framed by the dim light spilling from a cracked door nearby. The red feathers of her costume shimmered faintly, her silhouette sharp and unmistakable. One hand rested on her hip, the other holding the walkie talkie close to her lips.
“Oh, you better not keep me waiting for much longer…” she purred into the device, her tone dripping with playful promise. “Polly’s getting real impatient…”
47 observed her in silence.
The distance between them was nothing. A few steps. Less than a second’s work.
His mind mapped the kill instantly.
A suppressed shot from the shadows—clean, efficient, untraceable.
A narrow recess in the wall to her left—perfect for closing in, fiber wire ready, silent and final.
Above her, barely visible in the dark, a suspended piano hung precariously from old rigging. One shot to the chain and gravity would do the rest.
It was almost too easy.
And yet… he did not act.
Her voice lingered again, softer now, almost to herself.
“Mmm… you better hurry back to the nest…”
Something in the tone. The rhythm. The careless, unrestrained nature of it. It held him—not as prey is held, but as if his attention had been hooked, subtly and deliberately.
47 stepped forward.
The movement was quiet, controlled—but unnecessary. He didn’t need to get closer. Not for the kill.
A question formed, cold and precise: Why?
He had already eliminated Kulinsky with ease. This woman—by comparison—was even less guarded. Less disciplined. A simpler problem to solve.
And yet he kept walking.
Step by step, leaving the safety of shadow.
The invisible pull tightened on him. Not the instinct as he knew it. No calculated command. It was something else he didn't new. Something that guided him forward despite the inefficiency, despite the risk.
She shifted slightly.
Then she saw him.
Her posture changed instantly—shoulders relaxing, hips angling toward him with deliberate intent. A slow smile spread across her lips as she lowered the walkie talkie.
“Well, look who finally showed up…” she murmured, her voice warm, inviting. “Took you long enough, boo.”
47 said nothing at first. He simply watched her.
She gestured lazily with her fingers.
“C’mere…”
He obeyed.
Another step. Then another.
Each one closing the distance between hunter and target—though which was which had begun to blur.
Her eyes traced him as he approached, drinking in the familiar costume, the silhouette she expected. Her smile widened, and with a teasing slowness, she reached down and tugged lightly at the zipper of her costume, pulling it just low enough to make her intentions unmistakable.
“Figured we deserved a little… fun, before we get down to businness.” she teased. “
47 still had time.
Even now.
A single movement. A strike. A shot.
End it.
But the weight of that strange pull pressed heavier than reason.
He stepped closer.
Close enough now to see the subtle tension beneath her expression. Close enough to hear her breathing shift, just slightly.
Almost close enough to touch.
Then—something changed.
Her eyes sharpened.
The smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second.
She tilted her head, studying him—not as a lover now, but as something else entirely. Something wrong.
47 spoke, his voice still carrying the rough imitation of Kulinsky’s tone.
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint you…” he said, low and suggestive.
But even before the words had left his mouth, her expression was hardened completely.
The illusion had shattered.
Her hand moved faster than thought, slipping beneath her costume as she drew her pistol in one fluid motion. Her face twisted—not with fear, but with raw, explosive fury.
“You killed my boo!” she screamed, her voice cracking through the narrow alley like a gunshot itself.
The weapon snapped up, aimed directly at his chest.
“Now die!”
Time stretched.
It was a sensation Agent 47 knew well—those rare instants when the world slowed to a crawl, when every movement, every breath, every flicker of intent became visible, measurable, controllable. In those moments, he had always been unstoppable.
But this time was different.
The alley froze around him, the flickering neon light dragging itself across the walls in sluggish pulses. Angelina Mason’s scream seemed to echo endlessly, her voice warped and drawn out as her arm snapped upward with the pistol.
He saw everything.
The tension in her fingers.
The alignment of the barrel.
The tightening of her jaw, the rage burning in her eyes.
He saw it all.
And yet—he did not move.
It was as if his body no longer belonged to him. No command reached his limbs. No instinct translated into action. The same heightened awareness that had always been his greatest weapon now became a prison, forcing him to witness every detail without the ability to respond.
His gaze locked onto her face.
Even twisted in fury, there was something striking about it—raw, alive, unfiltered in a way he had never allowed himself to be. It held him there, caught between observation and something far less definable.
The suppressed crack of the pistol shattered the moment.
The first bullet cut through the air—he saw it, tracked it, calculated its path.
Too late.
It struck his chest with a dull, heavy impact.
Then another.
And another.
Each impact drove into him with precise, mechanical rhythm.
His body reacted at last—not with defense, but with collapse. His legs gave out, and he fell, the hard ground rushing up to meet him as the world lurched violently back into motion.
He hit the pavement.
The air left his lungs in a quiet, controlled exhale.
From the ground, he assessed. Instinctively. Professionally.
Multiple entry wounds. Center mass. Internal damage. Blood loss already accelerating. Fatal.
There was no question about it.
And yet—there was no fear.
No desperation.
None of the emotions he had seen countless times in the eyes of his targets as they reached their end. Only a strange clarity… and a lingering focus.
On her.
Angelina lowered the pistol, her breathing uneven, chest rising and falling beneath the loosened fabric of her costume. She stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply against the ground before she leaned over him, her shadow falling across his face.
“Should’ve stayed out of this,” she spat, voice thick with anger. “You and your precious ICA…”
Her words blurred at the edges, but her presence did not.
He watched her. Studied her. Not as a target now—but as something else entirely.
He should have responded. Should have met her anger with silence or defiance. That would have been expected. Appropriate.
Instead, his voice came out low, strained, almost detached.
“…Sorry… about your boo.”
The words surprised even him as they left his mouth.
Her expression flickered—confusion, irritation—but he had already looked away. Or tried to.
As he tried to avert her gaze—to break whatever strange hold lingered—he faltered, drawn downward instead.
The zipper of her costume still hung slightly open from her earlier teasing, the fabric shifted just enough to reveal the outlines of her right breast. His eyes settled there—not with hunger, not with desire, but with the same detached observation that had defined him his entire life.
And there, just beneath the curve of her boob, he saw the mark.
The insignia of The Franchise, inked just beneath the curve of her breast. Bold. Unmistakable.
A quiet, breathless chuckle escaped him.
“…they always place it… somewhere unexpected…”
Her expression hardened instantly.
“Unbelievable,” she snapped, misreading his gaze entirely. “You’re really gonna die like that? Sneaking a last peep like just another filthy creep?”
She shook her head, irritation mixing with something sharper, more personal. In one swift motion, she holstered the pistol and drew a knife instead, the blade catching the dim light.
“Well,” she added coldly, “enjoy the view while it lasts.”
She raised the blade, her posture shifting—not wild now, but controlled, almost theatrical.
47 understood the sarcasm. The intent. The finality of it.
And yet…
He found himself watching her. Not the blade, not the threat—but her movement. The fluidity. The balance. The remnants of the performer she once had been, still present in every precise motion.
Graceful.
His eyes followed the arc of her arm as it descended.
Completely captivated.
Until the blade finally struck his chest.
It slid into his torso with cruel precision, angled just right—deep, invasive, finding a place where nerves screamed and organs failed in unison. Even through his dulled perception, Agent 47 recognized it instantly. Not a random thrust. Not clumsy.
Deliberate.
Pain followed—not sharp, but heavy. Spreading. A pressure that hollowed him from the inside.
So much hatred, he registered, distantly.
And yet… still no anger answered it.
No rage. No defiance.
Only a strange, almost perverse admiration for the intent behind it. For the way she committed to the act, fully, without hesitation.
Angelina leaned closer, her body folding over his, her breath warm against his face. Her lips curled into a mocking, sultry smile as her eyes locked onto his fading gaze.
“This one…” she whispered, her voice low and intimate, “is for my boo.”
Her hand twisted.
The knife turned inside him.
The pain surged—sharp, consuming, tearing through what little control remained. His body tensed reflexively, a final, broken response to the damage. Blood welled, darker now, heavier, soaking into the ground beneath him.
That was the breaking point.
The wounds. The blood loss. The shock.
Everything converged at once.
His strength gave out completely.
Agent 47 felt it—the moment his body could no longer maintain the illusion of control. The precise calculations faded, slipping into something quieter, more distant.
His vision dimmed.
Angelina’s face remained above him, framed by shadow and faint neon light, her features softening into something colder now. Detached. Finished.
He watched her.
Even as the world blurred, even as the edges of his sight darkened, his gaze remained fixed on her.
Angelina’s face hovered above him, her expression settling into something colder now. The rage had burned through, leaving behind satisfaction… and a faint trace of disdain.
“Go on,” she said flatly. “Fucking die for me already.”
The words settled over him.
And he did.
Not in defiance. Not in resistance.
But almost… willingly.
His vision dimmed further, darkness closing in from the edges, swallowing detail, swallowing light.
The last thing he saw was her straightening, stepping back from him. The way she adjusted herself, as if brushing off the moment. The casual dismissal in her posture—as though he were nothing more than a completed task.
Discarded.
Like he had been nothing at all.
Darkness swallowed Agent 47's whole world.
For a moment, there was nothing.
—
But then, slowly, something returned.
A sterile bright light.
It overwhelmingly spread across everything, replacing the darkness with an empty void.
There was no weight, no pain, no body—only the stark presence of existence without form.
Within that void, shapes began to emerge.
Letters.
They wrote themselves into existence, one after another, forming a message he could not ignore.
Mission Failed. Agent 47 is dead.