A thin hand wipes the steam off the rectangular mirror. Soon, a feminine face appears. Her black eyes are accompanied by sharp eyebrows, her nose is straight, and her mouth with slightly full lips is dry. She stares at her reflection for a brief moment before exiting the bathroom.
Having lived in this studio for a few weeks, there aren't many important things. It's a spacious area, with a single bed, a medium-sized wardrobe, an open kitchen, and a desk near the window. The highlights of this room are the telescope in front of the window and the photo taped to the wardrobe door.
This photograph shows a young man with phoenix-like eyes and dark hair. He has a calm expression, and his lips are stretched into a pinkish smile. His image is the only vibrant thing in the cold and monotonous decor of the place.
The woman wore sweatpants and a dark top, revealing a firm abdomen, yet with some scars. Her well-defined back was also covered in marks resembling deep cuts.
The watch on her wrist is set, and it will ring at seven o'clock in the evening.
In the small kitchen, she searches the cabinet above the sink and grabs a spicy instant noodle cup. She fills a pot with water and sets it to boil.
While waiting, the woman moves toward the window and pulls back the gray curtains. Her telescope is already aimed in a specific direction. The boiled water is poured into the cup and then covered.
Her hands hold the package and place it on the perfectly clean desk. Ten minutes to seven, and the adrenaline courses through the tall, slender body of the woman.
The noodles slide down her throat and warm her cold stomach. She eats her dinner, eyes fixated on the watch on her wrist.
One minute to seven, and the woman is sitting on a stool with her left eye peeking through the telescope into the neighboring apartment. The lens is focused on the panoramic, curtainless window, capturing every movement.
An inaudible sigh escaped her lips as the front door opened. The woman moistened her dry lips and followed every small gesture made by the person who had just entered.
Maxin Romanov, who bears the same face as in the photograph, is also the deep longing of Nox, the relentless assassin who has spent the past five years searching for him. Curiously, a small newspaper ad revealed him to her.
Suddenly, reinvigorated, Nox witnessed the moment the young man removed the red hat from his head and unbuttoned the first three buttons of his black uniform.
Barefoot, Maxin walked through the apartment to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a carton of milk. He poured the liquid and licked his lips in an act that strangely sent chills down Nox's spine, before heading to his bedroom.
The room remained empty for twenty minutes until he appeared again. Wearing a white t-shirt, sweatpants, and a towel over his shoulders, his hair wet, and his dark bangs covering his smooth forehead.
Maxin sat on the dark blue couch and, from the small coffee table, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
Nox's mouth curled into a scornful smile at the sight of him smoking, with his head leaned back on the sofa. The smoke escaping through his lips.
"Dammit, so this is what you've been doing?" she murmured coldly.
The young man continued smoking, and Nox stepped away from the telescope.
The medium-sized TV mounted on the wall was tuned to an interesting news report:
Man arrested for attempted murder. He is also accused of being part of the Viper organization.
Nox's flip phone rang, and she picked it up. Viktor Donovan's voice sounded loudly:
"Did you see the news?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Why?! A colleague was arrested, and soon we'll all be hunted. Don't you care about spending over twenty years in prison or just being killed?!" Viktor shouted.
"Right now, my focus is elsewhere." That was all Nox replied.
"You should give up this sick obsession and start planning a strategy to escape this tragic end."
"Viktor, we are assassins. We kill people for money, without remorse. It's impossible for us to have a normal life." She sighed. "I was born to be an assassin, and I will die as one. Unfortunately, Maxin is a target, and I won't let this story drag on any longer."
"I feel sorry for you, Nox."
"Don't. Direct your concern to your wife, who has spent the last five years not knowing her husband is an assassin or that he's at risk of getting a bullet in his forehead any moment." With a surgical tone, Nox hit her friend's weak spot.
"You wouldn't do that..."
"Maxin is my target, and I will take him with me to hell if necessary!"
The call was abruptly ended. Nox placed the phone on the desk and returned to the stool.
With her eye on the telescope, the captured image was of Maxin sleeping on the couch.
"My aim is precise, and my shot is flawless. I never miss a target, Maxin Romanov. Never."
The dart launched became embedded in the captured image of the young man, hitting directly in the center of his face in a chilling prelude.