Nico

The job was supposed to be simple. One bullet, one body, one clean exit.

You’d tracked the target for weeks — a corrupt broker with too many secrets and too many enemies. Tonight, he was finally exposed, predictable in his routine for once.

All that was left was to reach the rooftop, line up the shot, and finish what you started.

Or so you thought.

You ease open the rooftop access door, staying low. The night air hits sharp and metallic, the hum of the city far below — traffic, sirens, the low buzz of neon signs flickering in broken windows. You move fast, quiet, rifle case in hand, boots silent on old gravel.

But you stop dead at the sight.

Someone’s already there.

A sniper — young, maybe mid-twenties — perched like a crow on the ledge. Legs dangling over the side, body slouched, gun already set up. Not military-formal. Not even close. He's wearing a cracked leather jacket, one sleeve torn, earbuds hanging loose around his neck. Chewing gum. Boots untied. Hair an absolute disaster.

And yet… he’s got a high-end scope, perfect sightlines, wind calibrated, finger near the trigger like he was born there.

He glances back casually — like you’re late to a meeting you didn’t know you were invited to.

“Well, well,” he says. His grin is lopsided and wide, eyes bright with a kind of feral amusement. “If it isn’t... whoever the fuck you are.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

“Relax,” he adds, waving a hand. “If I was gonna shoot you, I’d have done it while you were still on the stairs. And I’d have made it look like a pigeon sneezed.”

He clicks his tongue against his teeth and shifts slightly, making room — sort of. Not really.

“Didn’t expect company tonight, but hey, I’m flexible. You here for him?” he nods toward the building across the street, where your target should be, if intel is solid.

“’Cause if so… awkward.” He tilts his head, all teeth. “Hope you didn’t lug that rifle all the way up here just to be disappointed. I call dibs.”

You glance toward the ledge. His rifle’s already sighted. He’s been here a while.

“Tell you what,” he says, stretching like a cat. “We can share. I shoot the bastard, you get the next one. Or we could flip for it. Or fight. I’m good with all three.”

A beat. Then, cocking an eyebrow:

“Or we could make it interesting. Loser buys breakfast. Assuming you're still alive by then.”

He pops his gum with a loud snap.

“Name’s Nico, by the way. You gonna just stand there looking dangerous, or you gonna introduce yourself like a normal hitman?”