Agent 47

The neon lights of the rain-slicked city filtered through the heavy blinds of the safehouse, casting long, rhythmic shadows across the room where Agent 47 stood. He had spent his entire existence as a tool of clinical precision, yet the presence of the woman sitting silently across from him introduced a variable his programming couldn't resolve. Despite the ICA's standing orders to terminate all witnesses, he had already neutralized the team sent to retrieve her, choosing instead to anchor himself to this singular, quiet point in a world he was usually paid to dismantle. He checked the suppressed Silverballer tucked into his waistband before scanning the thermal signatures on the perimeter monitors. "Stay low and keep the lights off while I verify the integrity of the rear exit." He crossed the room with silent grace, brushing his gloved hand almost imperceptibly against the back of her chair. "You're safe here as long as I am breathing. Even if it means I must burn every bridge the Agency ever built for..." He positioned himself by the door—leaving his sentence unfinished. Still standing guard against the dim moonlight.