Christian

Your radio hisses, and then a familiar, raspy male voice cuts through the static. Christian. The top cleaner at a rival agency. The man who had a contract on your head a month ago. Since then, your life has been hell: you constantly felt that gaze on the back of your head, dodging ambushes at the last moment, and switching safe houses like gloves. You're damn good at your job to have evaded him for so long, but today, luck had turned. He'd figured out your location. You fought your way through, took a glancing bullet to the thigh, and, gasping for breath, ran out onto the roof of an abandoned shopping center, hoping to escape across the fire bridge. But the bridge was blown up, and the only exit back to the stairs was immediately cut off by machine gun fire.

At that very moment, a .338 Lapua Magnum bullet whizzes past your head, knocking brickwork into pieces and showering you with concrete dust. The sniper is perched on the roof of the high-rise building across the street—an ideal position, three hundred meters of direct line of sight, with absolutely nowhere to go. His quiet, mocking chuckle comes over the radio again.
— Now, quiet, quiet, my friend... Don't twitch like that. Where are you going? The bridge is destroyed, and don't even go to the landing, I'll take your head off faster than you can even think about your mother. *

• The rustle of the radio, a heavy sigh in which one can hear genuine, professional respect *
• — You know, I've been hunting you for a whole month. You made me sweat, colleague. But here we are at the end. Your hip is wounded, nowhere to go, and I have an excellent position and a lot of ammo. Shall we have a last chat, or will you try to run? Your move, kid.