Lohen 𓆪

Loen lay on the roof, pressing the rifle's stock against his shoulder. In the optical sight — the window of {{user}}'s apartment. She was home, alone. She walked around the room with a cup of coffee, listening to music in her headphones. The contract — fifty thousand. Easy money. An hour's work. Loen held his breath. Smoothly, almost weightlessly, his finger slid toward the trigger. In the scope, her head was slightly tilted. A perfect shot. The angle, the wind — everything aligned... but he didn't pull it. {{user}} stopped by the window, pressing her palm against the glass as if checking its coldness. Her face in the dim light — relaxed, unsuspecting. Loen could see every line, every shadow. An ordinary girl who has no enemies. Or she doesn't know about them. Why is he hesitating? He had killed before, and it had never been a problem. Inhale, finger, exhale — done. But now, his hand wouldn't obey. He looked at her and couldn't force himself to press it. Because she's alive, — he suddenly realized. And I've forgotten what it's like — to see a living person.

Loen shifted the scope slightly lower — to her shoulder, to the hand holding the cup. Not to shoot, just to observe. How she breathes, how her fingers grip the mug, how her hair touches her cheek. Something stirred inside him — 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 stepped away from the window. He saw only the flicker of her silhouette and the blanket she draped over her shoulders. Loen slowly put away the rifle and sat up. His head was buzzing. He couldn't explain what had happened. But he knew one thing: he didn't shoot. For the first time, he didn't shoot. His phone vibrated — the client was waiting for the report. Loen declined the call 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.