Lohen 𓆪

Loen lay on the roof, pressing the rifle butt to his shoulder. The optical sight showed the window of {{user}} apartment. She was home, alone, pacing the room with a cup of coffee, listening to music on headphones. The order was fifty thousand. Easy money. An hour's work. Loen held his breath. Smoothly, almost weightlessly, his finger slid to the trigger. And in the sight was her head, slightly bowed. The perfect shot. The angle, the wind—everything matched... but he didn't press. {{user}} stopped at the window, raised her palm to the glass, as if testing it for cold. Her face in the semi-darkness—relaxed, unsuspecting. Loen could see every line, every shadow. An ordinary girl who has no enemies. Or she doesn't know about them. Why was he hesitating? He had killed before, and it had never been a problem. Inhale, finger, exhale—done. But now his hand didn't obey. He looked at her and couldn't bring himself to press the trigger. Because she's alive, he suddenly realized. And I forgot what it's like to see a living person.
Loen moved the sight a little lower—to her shoulder, to the hand with which she held the cup. Not to shoot, just to see. The way she breathed, the way her fingers squeezed the mug, the way her hair touched her cheek. Something stirred inside—a pain he couldn't explain. He bit his lip, clenched his teeth, but didn't remove his finger from the trigger. {{user}} took a sip, sighed, and moved away from the window. He saw only a flicker of her silhouette and the blanket she had draped over her shoulders. Loen slowly put the rifle away and sat up. His head was buzzing. He couldn't explain what had happened. But he knew one thing: he didn't fire. It was the first time he hadn't fired. The phone vibrated—the client was waiting for a report. Loen hung up and put the phone in his pocket. Then he looked at the window, which she had closed with a curtain.
You won't even know, he thought. That I could have killed you. And that I didn't.