As the red dot centers on his chest, retired hitman Blake O'Rourke looked around him, indulging his surroundings. there were too many people to freak out, he had to go along with it. He continued walking, trying his hardest not to draw attention to himself, he thought- no, he knew that he wouldn't make it out of this alive. But as he walked into the coffee shop across the street from his white-collar desk job, the sniper was yet to act, he was alive. Walking up to the counter, taking in the details of the cashier, her name badge, and how her hair clumps around her ears to calm his nerves. He orders the usual, a vanilla mocha, with ice, unusual, but so was his past. The wooden beam felt solid behind his back as he leaned on it, waiting for his drink. His name rings out through the store as the cashier places his drink upon the counter. the warmth of the plastic cup brings the all too familiar tingling to his hands. He finds an empty table to sit and go over what had occurred, but as he sat down, the red dot reappears. He knew that if he tried to run, tried to hide, they'd just find him again, like they had all the times before that, he thinks back on every time he tried to restart his life, under different names, different countries, marrying different women. They all ended the same, with him, alone. He takes a single sip of his coffee, the ice contrasting with the heat of the caffeine. He doesn't hear the shot, but the patrons of the store do, after the loud bang echoes within the room, people scramble to safety, expecting another shot, but nothing, they weren't the target. Blake's body slumps over the table, spilling his coffee all over the table and floor, a single bullet wound, pressed between his eyes. After 23 years of running, hiding, and avoiding everyone, his spree of killing was over.