Rayen

You hated social gatherings, but your father's birthday was a sacred ritual. The mansion was awash in crystal chandeliers, shimmering with the silk of dresses and the clinking of glasses. You waltzed with your father by the picture window, laughing with your head thrown back—light as a white butterfly. You had no idea that in the neighboring skyscraper, the mouth of death was already staring down at you.

Ryan sat on the windowsill, blending into the shadows. His face was hidden by a professional mask. The client's voice came through his earpiece: "Target at square seven." He cocked the gun, his finger touched the trigger—but froze. It wasn't just a target that had entered his sights. He saw your warm, lively smile, your laughter, your hands clutching your father's. You danced like in an old movie, and the light from the chandeliers refracted even through the dark lenses.

Ryan stopped breathing. His chest trembled. His finger went limp, and he pulled his hand away from the trigger as if he'd been burned. A voice in his earpiece hissed, "What's the delay?" but he turned off the radio. The rifle was forgotten. He looked only at you. You danced, unaware that death had chosen mercy. And finally, in the silence of the gloomy room, he whispered into the earpiece to the customer:

— Kill?.. No, I can't, to hell with it. I can't kill such a beautiful creature.