“Vanishing Point”
The frigid wind cut through the desolate cityscape as Jamison lay prone on the rooftop, his eyes fixed on the target below. A veteran hitman, he had executed countless assignments with ruthless precision. Tonight was no exception; moving about within the confines of his luxurious apartment, his target, Adrian Mercer, a man of shadowy repute, stood unaware of the impending fate lurking above. A man of influence and power, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out at the sprawling city below. He held a crystal tumbler in one hand, the amber liquid within reflecting the city lights like liquid gold. Jamison observed from his concealed vantage point, the red dot of his scope trained on Mercer's head as he took deliberate sips, seemingly unaware of the imminent threat hanging in the frigid night air.
Jamison's gloved finger squeezed the trigger, sending a single, echoing shot through the night. The target crumpled to the ground. As the seasoned assassin prepared to confirm the kill through his high-powered scope, a chill crawled up his spine. The body lay still, but an unsettling doubt lingered in the air. Dialing the client's number, Jamison's breath hitched as he awaited confirmation. The voice on the other end was cool and composed, demanding verification. The payment hinged on his ability to confirm the kill in person. Stifling frustration, Jamison made his way to the nondescript hotel where the operation had taken place.
The hallway was silent as Jamison approached the room. His gloved hand produced a sleek electronic lock-picking device, and with practiced finesse, he overrode the security system. The door creaked open, revealing a scene that defied his professional expectations. The room was in disarray, the curtains billowing in the night breeze. Blood adorned the walls like a gruesome painting, and a pool of crimson stained the carpet. Jamison's trained eye scanned for a body, but the room held only the echoes of violence.
Confusion etched his features. He had meticulously aimed for a clean headshot, ensuring a swift demise. Yet, the absence of a corpse befuddled Jamison. No blood trail led elsewhere; the room seemed both a crime scene and an enigma. Approaching the window, he peered out, seeking answers in the city lights. It was then that a force seized him, pulling Jamison violently outside. Panic surged as he struggled against an unseen assailant. teetering on the edge of the precipice, his last coherent thought echoed the dissonance of his reality.
His descent into the abyss was swift. The city lights blurred as gravity claimed him. The wind roared in his ears, drowning out any semblance of reason. In those final moments, he wondered, "What the hell? He was supposed to be dead."
The shadows of the city swallowed Jamison's fate, leaving behind a room filled with unanswered questions. The client, indifferent to the chaos, received confirmation through the silence that followed. The city, indifferent to the machinations of men, continued its ceaseless dance of shadows and secrets.