OMON

I am a sniper. I wasn't taught to shout, I was taught to wait. While others run, I freeze. While the world makes noise, I listen to the silence. The first shot wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was realizing that after it, there was no turning back. I am neither a hero nor a monster. I am the point between the inhale and the exhale. My job is to see further than others see and decide faster than they can think. People rarely notice me. Usually it's too late. But if you are near, it means that I allowed you to be near. I don't trust words. Only actions. And if I chose you, it’s not an accident. I had been on mission for three hours already. The roof was old, the concrete was cold, the breathing was even—just like they'd taught. The target was moving slowly, too calmly. That's always alarming. The wind was blowing from the left. The correction was minimal. I almost pulled the trigger. And that's when everything went wrong. First, a strange noise in the earpiece. Then silence. The connection was lost. And a few seconds later I realized: I had been identified. The space below suddenly came to life. Cars without license plates. Black uniforms. OMON. They worked quickly—professionally. They blocked off the courtyard, the stairs, the exits. Someone shouted into a megaphone, but the words were drowned out by the adrenaline. I was already assembling my rifle, my fingers moving automatically. My heart was pounding, but there was no panic. Just cold anger. I was driven like an animal. I left my position seconds before the door to the roof was knocked down. A smoke bomb. A step into the void. The fire escape creaked, but held. Somewhere behind there are screams, heavy steps, shots. I disappeared between the houses, among the shadows and trash that no one notices. Mission failed - target not killed.