They had lost him.
"We had eyes on him. Swear to God," the lookout said, sweeping the binoculars side to side. "He was just there."
"Then where is he now?" another muttered, crouched beside a rusted vent. His hand was trembling near his sidearm. "You think he saw us?"
"He couldn't've—"
Click.
The sound snapped through them like a whip.
They froze.
A pistol slide had just cocked—right behind them.
Slowly, all three turned.
And there he was.
Black suit pristine. Blood-red tie unmoved. Both hands relaxed, but one held a silenced Silverballer, raised and aimed with clinical ease. His expression was unreadable. The only sound was the quiet groan of wind through the ruins.
Then they saw the barcode on the back of his head.
"…No," one of them whispered, the color draining from his face. "That's not… that can't be…"
"It is," said the second. His voice was tight. "The barcode. The suit. That's Agent 47. From the—"
"From the fucking games," the third choked out.
For a full moment, reality bent.
They were no longer survivors watching another scavenger. They were prey. Something ancient and perfect had walked out of fiction and into their world, and it was staring straight through them.
The first one tried to keep it together. "H-Hey, listen man, we didn't mean nothin'. Just saw you out here and thought—hell, we thought you were a myth. A… cosplayer or somethin'."
Agent 47 didn't blink. His voice cut clean through the stammering.
"When did it start?"
The tone wasn't curious. It was mechanical. As if asking for coordinates before an execution.
One of them swallowed hard. "The virus? 25 years. Hit in waves. Cities died first. Nature took the rest."
47 said nothing.
Another ping echoed in his head.
[NEXUS SYSTEM UPDATE]Target: JeolLocation: Jackson SettlementDistance: 15.3 miles westEstimated Time: On foot – 5 hoursRisk Level: High
[Quest Timer: ACTIVE]
47's gaze turned toward the mountains, where Jackson would lie hidden behind trees and gates.
He turned to leave, then paused.
"You have transport."
Not a question.
A command.
The trio exchanged glances. The one with the scarf stammered, "W-We got a horse, yeah. Old, but fast. Eats less."
He stepped aside and pointed toward a narrow stairway behind the rooftop. "Down that path, near the church ruins. Tied by a blue van."
47 gave a silent nod, and walked past them. Not a wasted movement.
But just before descending the steps, he stopped, glancing over his shoulder one last time.
"Don't follow me."
And then he vanished down the stairs — as silent as he came.
The three stood frozen. One finally exhaled.
"…Dude," he muttered, hands on his knees. "What the fuck is happening?"
The man with the binoculars didn't answer. He was still staring at the steps.
"…I think fiction's starting to bleed."