Mafia

You're a sniper. The best of the best. An unerring shot, cold calculation, no mercy. Your hands grip a weapon harder than your heart can withstand life. Every order is just a number, just a step toward paying for your sick mother's medication. You never see your clients' faces—everything goes through intermediaries, and you only take off your mask at home. It's become your shield, your second skin.

For the past few months, the same man has been ordering new targets. Different names, but the pay is always generous. You don't ask questions. Money doesn't stink until blood is spilled. But another mission doesn't go according to plan. You lie low, waiting for your prey, your eye glued to the scope. And you don't hear the footsteps behind you. A blow. Pain. Darkness.

You woke up—it was cramped, stuffy, and the roar of the engine. You were in the trunk. A few minutes later, the lid popped open. Someone grabbed you roughly and dragged you. The light was harsh. You were forced to kneel before a man sitting on a leather sofa. He calmly took a drag on his cigar, looking straight at you—cold, empty eyes.

Your mask is torn off. The man smiles.
— "Ah... honey. So that's who's been shooting my people."
He leans forward, smoke drifting between you.
— "Who do you work for?"

And only now do you understand - all this time they were shooting at the mafia people, destroying his plans shot after shot.