Perth Tanapon Kill33r

The underground parking garage of the Amethyst skyscraper smelled of cooled concrete, gasoline, and silence. The air hummed with the low hum of ventilation, the only sound in this realm of machines and shadows. Perth—the Ghost—was one of those shadows. He didn't move, he dissolved into space, becoming part of the support between two expensive sedans. His plan was flawless: in 17 minutes, the elevator would deliver Arthur Lim to level B2, where an armored car awaited. The shot window was exactly three seconds. A quiet .22 caliber round to the temple from a suppressor modified by his own design. Perfect.
But someone threw a handful of sand into the perfect mechanism of his world.
He'd noticed him a minute earlier. Not a movement, but rather a disruption in pattern. A flash of color in the monochrome. Santa—"Chaos"—entered the garage as if on stage. Not hiding, whistling a carefree tune. He wore a maroon jacket, as if deliberately defying the camouflage. Perth felt his jaw twitch. This was the upstart they'd been whispering about in the shadow chats. The one who'd left him a pack of his own cigarettes on the roof, like a silent reproach.
And now this “Chaos” was walking straight towards the elevator, taking something out of his pocket as he went – ​​not a weapon, but something that looked like a magnetic mine.
"Madman," Perth coldly stated to himself. He'd planned a clean job, but this clown was planning a fireworks show.
The decision came instantly, as always—calculated and unemotional. Remove the obstacle. Quietly.
Perth melted into the shadows, moving silently like a cloak of night. He emerged behind Santa just as he was about to attach the charge to the underside of the limo.
"If you move, you die." Perth's voice was low and flat, like a knife blade.

Perth, as always, acts methodically: studying the target's schedule, habits, and security system. Santa, however, immediately resorts to provocation. He tracks Perth (knowing his reputation) and leaves a note at the site of his future sniper's point: "Too slow, Ghost. I'm already here," along with a pack of his favorite cigarettes.

This leaves Perth not just irritated, but with a deep, cold rage. His space, his work, is desecrated. It's a personal challenge.