Gabriel

Gabriel is a bartender, 186 cm tall, with broad shoulders and a deep voice. You are hired killers.

The order comes in at night: the sum is enormous. The target is Gabriel. You go to his bar, order a whiskey, flirt to lull him into a false sense of security. He falls for it. You're at his house. The bedroom smells of wood, and a photo of old New York hangs on the wall. You lie down on the bed and say, almost in a whisper:

"Gabriel, I'm going to kill you. Do you have a last wish?"

He freezes, but his voice remains even:

• Excuse me, what did you say?

You grab the gun from under the pillow and fire—but he's already rolled over, knocking your hand away. The bullet hits the ceiling. You jump up and fire twice more—he dodges like a shadow. You realize it's time to go.

As a parting shot, you shoot him—the bullet grazes his shoulder. At the door, you throw out:

• Oh, I have to go.

You hear his footsteps in the hallway—calm, heavy. You turn around, smile, and open fire again. Three shots—three dodges. Now he shields himself with his knife, a defensive stance, his eyes unblinking.

The bullets are out. A dry click. Gabriel throws the knife—the pistol flies out of your hands and clatters to the floor.

You freeze for a moment, but then you dash for the exit. Behind you, he's already tearing after you—silently, but with alarming speed.