The wind carried the scent of rot and wet soil.
Agent 47 moved soundlessly through the city's skeleton, stepping over cracked concrete, his trained eyes dissecting every angle — rooftops, alleys, shadows. If someone were here, they'd already seen him.
Ten minutes out from the abandoned supermarket, he heard it:
Shuffling.
Not coordinated. Erratic.
He crouched low behind a burnt-out sedan. Through the twisted remains of a storefront window, he saw them — three figures stumbling down the road, twitching and slack-jawed, like drunkards too far gone for dignity.
They staggered… sniffed the air.
Then stopped.
One lifted its head. Its face, or what remained of it, peeled back like a rotting fruit — fungal plates bursting from the cheeks, a twisted nest of pores where eyes should've been.
47's hand went to his holster. Instinct.
The thing screeched — no voice, just wet, inhuman rage — and all three broke into a sprint.
"Infection."He didn't say it. He didn't have to.
He raised both Silverballers — two dull clicks as the silencers locked into place. No hesitation. Just calculated movement.
POP–POP.POP–POP–POP.
The bodies dropped mid-charge, crumpling onto the moss-coated asphalt, black-red blood soaking into the cracks. Their fungal faces steamed slightly in the post-rain humidity.
47 approached one of them, crouching briefly.Fungal growth through the mouth and skull.Dense mycelium structure.Infection long-term.
He looked around again. The city wasn't collapsing — it had already collapsed. Nature reclaimed everything. Civilization was gone.
Conclusion:
Viral outbreak. High mortality. Societal collapse.Estimated timeline: 10–30 years.
Far above, on a broken rooftop three blocks away, binoculars clicked into focus.
"Yo… you seein' this?" a man whispered, cigarette barely hanging from his lips.
Another leaned over, pulling a torn scarf off his face. "What the hell is he wearin'? You see that? Looks clean… fresh."
"Dude's rockin' a full suit. With a tie. And dual pistols with silencers. Ain't no one wearin' shit like that since... hell, maybe twenty years."
The man with the binoculars didn't respond. His hands were shaking.
"Oi. You good?"
"I know that barcode…" he muttered.
"What?"
He adjusted the zoom.
"Back of the head. Right on the scalp. That… that's Agent 47."
Silence.
Then the other one laughed. "You mean from those Hitman games? What, is this guy some cracked cosplayer? After two decades of hell?"
"Man, I dunno," the binoculars whispered. "But… look at him. He's moving like a damn ghost."
Below, 47 was already gone.